


Bury My Brain at Baker Street

by nonphenomenaut



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood and Violence, Burgeoning Romance, Case Fic, Deductions, Dubious Morality, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Graphic Description of Corpses, Headcanon, M/M, Meta, Miles - Third Star, Possessive Sherlock, Post The Great Game, Questionable ethics, Rimming, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-13
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-12 23:33:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 124,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2128623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonphenomenaut/pseuds/nonphenomenaut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of Moriarty's unveiling, John Watson must traverse the pitfalls of friendship (while on the hunt for a killer) and learn just what lengths he'll have to go through to have Sherlock Holmes as a partner.</p>
<p>//<br/>Sherlock swallowed. "This case is important to me, John. It comes first."</p>
<p>"I know."</p>
<p>"You will not interfere with my feelings on it. Just as it will not interfere with my feelings about you. These things are to remain separate within me. You have to understand that."</p>
<p>"I do. I understand."</p>
<p>They were an inch apart now, building heat in each other's eyes. Sherlock's blazed with pale fire, while John's roiled dark like the sulfur vents at the bottom of the sea. They lived as two things purely elemental, opposite and true.</p>
<p>"And you will still have me?"<br/>//</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Adventures of the Exploding Man

**Author's Note:**

> this is the domesticity of 221B turned up to the eleven notch with a slightly more manic Sherlock, as seen by way of John. Set after 'The Great Game' and wedged in tightly before 'A Scandal in Belgravia' before careening off into alternative territory.
> 
> the story will contain characters and circumstances from the Sir Doyle's original canon (which will be referenced according to chapter) and a whole heapin' helpin' of extrapolations from the BBC canon, a massive flexing of my headcanons, and may just make mention of someone in real life.
> 
> It should also be noted that I love anatomy and specifics and have been working on this for almost a year now. But most of all, I love these characters and I hope that it reflects in my hard work. 
> 
> thank you very much. please enjoy.
> 
> p.s. any words written with forward slahes around them are to be considered italicized. the program i used to write this on my Kindle does not have this option. apologies.
> 
> p.s.p.s. unBritpicked and viciously edited. please let me know if something's eluded me. :}
> 
>  
> 
> //

Doctor John Watson took his time coming down the stairs, clutching gingerly at his left shoulder, trying to dispel the irritating ache that gnawed at it. Tender pressure with his thumb sent electricity down into his fingertips, though radial motion of his rotator cuff produced no such sensation. Which he found strange.

The sitting room of 221B was almost exactly as they had left it. In organised chaos. With ephemera spread from one side of the loud wallpaper to the other. There was a table buried somewhere under loose leaf papers and laptops and half finished mugs of tea. A pooling collage of data was thumb tacked above the couch; its information rendered useless now that the string of crimes had been solved. 

Their mismatched chairs sat facing each other before the hearth. One soft with red brocade, trussed up with pillows and a blanket. The other dark and plush and bracketed with the hard lines of chrome and gray leather. They were set both in harmony and counterpoint as much as the two men that occupied them. Separate and together. Each other's better halves.

Sheets of plywood hung where there had once been windows, doing little against the molestation of chilly, late morning air. Autumn was just beginning to lose its bright burnish and was making the turn into what was being forecast as a long and icy winter. He made a mental note to check with their landlady, Mrs. Hudson, as soon as he could to see about hurrying up the replacement windows before it started to snow.

"Christ." Goose pimples rose on John's arms as he shuffled into the kitchen with the daily papers. Starting the cafetiere and setting out two mugs, pleased to find that he only had to move a morning star and a tube of dialectic grease off their tall stele side table to reclaim it from the scourge of science.

Their main dining area had been overtaken as a laboratory long before he'd even moved in and he saw no point in trying to change it now. Keeping his roommate's inquisitive nature confined to a centralized location was enough of a formidable challenge and he relegated himself to stopping the spread of experiments from taking over every flat surface of their kitchen as much as he could.

John reminisced on how he had awoken that morning, called to consciousness by the single soft syllable of his name, spoken from his bedroom doorway. Drawn up like a fish on a hook. He'd blinked at the mad detective, needing a moment to orient himself and sit up. "Sherlock?"

There had been a smile at play in Sherlock's pale eyes. His voice, by contrast, a dark rumble through the silence. "Do you intend to sleep all day? If I'd have known my flatmate had required a hibernation period, I perhaps would have declined your sharing the rent."

"How long was I out?" John had asked.

"Twenty seven hours." Sherlock had replied, fiddling with the cuff of his long blue robe. His inky hair had been a dark starburst atop his gaunt face. His long body tilted against the doorframe, perfectly at ease. He had been wearing loose pajama bottoms and an inside-out tee shirt and John was always baffled as to how he could walk around barefoot so much. His piercing eyes had been trained fixedly on John, reading him like a book. 

Most people squirmed uncomfortably under that look his flatmate gave him, seeming to find it on equal comparison to being flayed alive for inspection, but John found that he simply didn't mind.

"That long? Jesus." John had remarked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "And you slept, I hope." 

Sherlock had shrugged nonchalantly. "Eight hours, approximately. More than I could possibly need."

"Right." John had snorted. "You do know that's a recommended night's sleep for normal humans, right?"

"Trivial." Sherlock had waved a long hand in dismissal, "we've a client coming at three John. I expect--" then he immediately stiffened up, his ear cocked towards the stairs.

"What?" John had strained to listen for whatever it was. "I didn't hear anything."

"That would be fore me!" Sherlock had exclaimed and left in a dramatic sweep of blue silk. "Coffee would be appreciated!" Had come a request over trampling feet, that, from the sound of them petering out, meant that Sherlock was rampaging clear down three flights of steps to the front door. A brief glance out the window as he had made his way towards his bureau had revealed a bicycle courier on the pavement. And John had softly smiled.

By all accounts, he shouldn't have been in such a nice mood. But he found he couldn't help himself. He was glad to be home again. Glad to have things back as they should be. Glad to be alive. And that overshadowed all the rest.

John settled himself down into the tall chair and snapped out the creases in his newspaper, glancing only briefly at Sherlock as he came banging into the kitchen from the side door, laden with a medium sized box with the stamped words: 'PROPERTY OF ST. BART'S HOSPITAL - HUMAN TISSUE - DO NOT DELAY' and looking positively thrilled. He set it down on the partner to John's chair and hurriedly gathered supplies.

"Ah. Ordered out for breakfast eh?" John joked, slightly wary as to its possible contents, while Sherlock ignored him and snapped on some nitrile gloves. Seeming to be completely oblivious to the chill in the room.

He opened the tape carefully with a paring knife, and the box seemed to breathe with lapping wisps of dry ice vapour. From the inner box, he very carefully lifted out the bulky mass of a human brain. And for the briefest of moments, he looked as though he were making an offering to terrible gods amidst fearsome fog, but the spell was broken when Sherlock set it down next to his coffee and decidedly too close to John's toast.

"Sherlock? You're going to disinfect this all. Yeah?" John asked, pulling his plate a little closer to keep both items uncontaminated for the benefit of both parties. He had intended for it to be construed as more of a statement, rather than a question.

"Yes. Yes." Sherlock answered curtly, preoccupied with pulling out a twelve inch chef's knife and repositioning the brain to his liking.

He was lining the hemispherical fissure up with himself when John turned back to his paper, reading captions and skimming through paragraphs, pointedly ignoring his flatmate's preoccupation with some poor sod's gray matter for as much and as long as he could.

There was the sound of a thousand cut hairs and the heavy thunk of the knife hitting solid surface, the blade drug back and pressed through again. Then the unmistakable fall and wobble of two brain hemispheres rocking on the tabletop.

John turned the page. "Corpus callosum." 

"Sorry?"

"That noise the knife just made. Cutting through the two hundred million nerve fibers that connect the left side to the right. Corpus callosum." He turned another page and cleared his throat for good measure. "In case you were interested." He knew he could bait Sherlock's interest when it came to anything in Latin and right now he was feeling generous

"Hm." Was the only sound Sherlock made as he contemplated it. From the sound of it, he was chopping the brain into smaller chunks now, though John knew that he was tucking the identification away into his mind palace somewhere for safe keeping. 

John would never get tired of being able to provide a concrete reference to Sherlock's rudimentary knowledge of anatomy. Casually flinging out things like 'Omo-hyoid muscle' or 'Anastomotica magna of the brachial artery' whenever the mood was right. John was simply happy to help.

The further he perused the crimes section, the more sobered John's feelings became. He didn't expect their affair at the pool last night to have made it into the papers; there hadn't been any witnesses, after all. So he honestly didn't know why he was even searching for it, but he felt that there should have been something, anything, to give reality to their events. To show the world that it had happened. That the moment /existed/. And a new and terrible threat to panhuman wellbeing had been revealed. 

But there was nothing. And it incensed him most that Jim Moriarty, a psychopath who had trussed up innocent people, John included, in explosives, all in the name of some sick game that he had orchestrated for Sherlock to solve, had seemingly vanished into thin air.

Even Sherlock's brother Mycroft, who had a whole security section of the British government at his disposal, could not have stopped the madman from going to ground. Moriarty was back in his spider hole this morning. Safe and sound. And waiting for his time to return.

It set John's teeth on edge.

When he looked up again, Sherlock was sorting out two different types of nails into zinc and copper piles and had a mess of alligator clips set before him. Oblivious to John's sudden feelings of quiet outrage, acting as if nothing had even happened, as of their lives hadn't been in danger at all. And it made John angrier.

The air grew palpably denser between them as John ruminated on the events that had lead them up to this point. The phone calls and the pips. The semtex and tears and the hot, fast pursuit of the Game. John needed answers, or at least to express his opinion. A release on his pressure valve at the most. He was feeling ready to split. Too emotionally full to go on being silent.

His id was beginning to stir. 

John drank the rest of his coffee with one swallow and carefully set aside his newspaper. Allowing his friend time to read his stiff body language. Sherlock's shoulders grew almost imperceptibly more taut and his hands slowed down in their work. It was then that he engaged him, knowing he had his full attention even if his head was turned away. "So. Are we going to talk about it?"

"Talk about what?" Sherlock tried to be nonchalant, but when he raised his head, he looked immediately ensnared.

"You." John started with, because they both knew. And the moment he said it Sherlock lowered his gaze again. 

John knit his fingers together and rested his forearms flat on the table, as if grounding himself before electricity arced between them. "The consulting detective who's /supposedly/ a genius. Haring off in the middle of the bloody night - brandishing /stolen/ missile plans - with the intent to give them over to a serial bomber. Sound about right?" He stared fixedly at the mop of dark curls floating above the grayish, gelatinous brain now separated into six equal sized slabs. "The thing I can't seem to understand though, is why on EARTH you would ever think that would have been a smart idea."

"I needed a better understanding of my adversary." Sherlock said in a small voice as if this had been ready as an answer for a very long while. "Why he was--"

"No." John spat, expecting the diversion and immediately circumventing it. "That wasn't understanding, Sherlock. That was you stroking your own ego. Getting your kicks by having a chat with someone who just wanted to play a game with you. You did it once before with the cabbie and the pills and you did it again last night! That man was unstable and irrational and you walked yourself right into a trap. Admit it. Moriarty caught you with your bloody pants down."

"He certainly did no-" Sherlock began, looking shocked.

"Oh, really?" John cut him off. He could feel the phantom weight of bomb laden vest pulling on his neck and he flexed his fingers around the irritable tremor in his left hand. "Don't even try to lie to me, mate. I saw your face when I stepped out. You were caught. It's a bloody MIRACLE we made it out of there alive! You were unarmed and out manned. Oh, but you had that pistol, right? How long do you think you could have fooled him with that, hm? I had no problem telling the difference between my Browning and a bloody gag lighter from five fucking feet away Sherlock! And Moriarty was even closer than that to you! What if he had called your bluff, hm? What would you have done then!" 

John's voice had risen to a shout, slightly shrill with an undercurrent of desperation and he lowered it to a fierce whisper. "My point is, you engaged an enemy with no forethought. No surveillance. You had no plan. For Christ's sake, you didn't even know what you were walking into. The only thing you did right was to pick a neutral territory, yeah?" He scowled as a smirk began to curl at Sherlock's lips, chasing it away. "No! Even with THAT you couldn't have left out the goddamned theatrics. Instead of going someplace in public, somewhere /safe/, you were too busy being a show off and picked the pool where Carl died and it nearly backfired in your face. In both our faces!"

He pressed his palms into the table, taking deep breaths in through his nose to calm himself back down.

Sherlock paused completely in his work, having pushed the last of the double nails into each slice, giving them all a Frankenstein-esque quality. The alligator clips hung limply from his fingers. "There was an admitted level of uncertainty, I'll concede." He said. "But I do believe that I began with the upper hand." 

"Sherlock." He said his name in warning, glancing up at the spot where one of Moriarty's men had trained a laser sight and threatened to open up his friend's third eye. "Whatever upper hand you think you might have had, went straight to shit the minute he threw the fucking thumb drive into the pool."

"I was ninety-three percent certain that I would have been alright." 

John snorted derisively, shaking his head. "Ninety-three? That's it?" He folded his arms across his chest, letting that dangerous smile mold around his face. "That's not good enough Sherlock. Not even close."

Sherlock let the pregnant silence sit between them before looking him once again in the eye, his tone sober. Wriggling like a kid caught out after curfew. "You are correct, John. I misinterpreted the lengths at which Moriarty would go. I honestly had not expected him to involve you. It will not happen again." Sherlock fought against seeing the memory of John throwing his arms around Moriarty, fully prepared to sacrifice himself and be lost in a fine spray of gory mist.

The look on the detective's face was genuine enough to dispel most of John's anger, because it meant that it /had/ at least affected him in some way, and John sagged like a bag losing air. "Look." He said more gently. "I'm not trying to be an arse here. What happened is already done with, we can't change it. The real point I'm trying to make is that next time, whatever the circumstances, just include me, alright? I would like for us to work together." He made sure to hold Sherlock's eyes, driving home his sincerity. "I am with you. One hundred percent. Alright?"

Sherlock considered this for a long while while he went back to his work, stringing up the separated pieces with the wiring like telephone poles stretching across a clump of islands. "Yes. Alright."

"Good." John smiled encouragingly, getting a small one in return. His interests sated, he wanted desperately for a change in subject. "So d'you want to tell me what you're putting nails into a bloke's brain for?"

Sherlock welcomed the tangent easily. "It's to test my theory on the longevity of electrolytes after death. Although, it would be preferable to use a brain at the exact moment of death." He produced a small LED on a solderless puck and connected one end to his crude circuitry. "But this is going to have to suffice."

"Needs must." John mused. Perfectly at ease with his roommate's more appalling hobbies. "Hang on. Haven't I seen this type of experiment before?"

"It's certainly possible."

"Wait. Yeah. I think I remember this back from school." John smiled as he recalled it. "Except what I saw was done with potatoes."

"Dull." Sherlock grinned and pressed in the other part of his wiring, completing the circuit and making the little red diode glow to life. 

They both stared at it for a long while, lost in their own private thoughts. It's light was dim against the harsh fluorescent over the stove, but its subdued luminosity remained constant and seemed to be filled with hope. A strange little life amidst conspicuous death.

John rubbed at his shoulder again, unable to help it.

"Just fire the woman and be done with it." Sherlock's statement seemingly came out of nowhere, yet struck bullseye just as they always seemed to. John never could quite get used to it.

"How could you possibly know I was thinking about my therapist?" 

"Simple." Sherlock began coyly, delighted to flex his skills now that his experiment had reached the tedious stage of observation. "You haven't updated your blog for four days now and you're worried about waning public opinion, it doesn't take me to see that from the way you looked around the kitchen for you laptop, that you're gasping to check your e-mail. 

"You worry your lower lip with your tongue when you're adjudicating, so you're trying to decide if anything from the last string of cases can be /hideously embellished/ into a story. Carl Powers' case is past its statute of limitations and would be of little interest to current readers anyway. You won't write about the Columbian relocation because that story is wholly uninteresting. The tetanus woman is already media fodder so not worth your efforts there. And you won't write about the Golem, because that places us at the planetarium at the time of that Professor's death. Best not to incriminate ourselves with that. So the only thing left to you is the Bruce-Partington Plans, but again you're stuck because you can't write about classified government goings-ons. So you've got nothing.

"It's been driven into you since you've been invalided that you should write about your experiences and from that an easy extrapolation can be made into why you checked your watch, because you and I both know your therapist is in office today and she takes her lunch at eleven, so you thought that would give you time to call after you're finished with your breakfast. And you may as well tell /someone/ of what happened if you can't tell the public. But given your bleeding heart and the way you scowled you made it incredibly evident that since you have not been attending your therapy sessions for quite some time now, you would think it rude to suddenly 'burden' her with your issues.

"However, I can tell you for a fact, John, that she is terribly unconcerned with your well-being. Her cheques arrive from the Veterans' Mental Health NHS Trust like clockwork and therefore she is totally indifferent to your showing up or not. Were you even aware that she was in the middle of writing a book about you and other repatriated veterans under her care? Her sole intention was to profit off your sacrifice, not heal you." Sherlock's face was wrecked with disgust.

"All you are to her is a label: 'John Watson, war hero, with PTSD.' As though it could define you." He used air quotes as he said it, not yet noticing the flush of embarrassed pride crawling up John's neck. "Would you deign to guess the title of this travesty? 'From War Zone to Zen.' Utter /vile/. Her vocational apathy should not be allowed to-- what?" He was brought up short in his tirade, perplexed by the grin that was splitting John's face. He hadn't even gotten to the obvious trouble with the doctor's shoulder, but he let the point ghost away.

"Nothing." John chuckled. "I just didn't know you cared so much."

"Well of course I care. I can't have you looking like you're my charity case." The slightly hurt look on John's face made him rethink himself. "What I mean to say is that she is a complete moron and you're wasting your time even thinking about her."

"Is that your official opinion on the matter then?"

"Yes John. You're far better off with me." Sherlock stood up straight, proud against John's quirked eyebrow. "In the time we've lived together I've cured you of your psychosomatic limp and have decreased the occurrences of your nightmares down to two to three per a bi-week interval. You've gained six pounds in muscle alone chasing my coattails. And all you need do is pay half the rent and write our cases up onto your blog. By my summation, and I'm sure it to be yours as well now; I'm the best thing that's ever happened to you."

"Are you now?" The backhanded saccharine was almost too much to absorb. "I suppose that's a point I could possibly concede to." He said warmly.

"Well of course it is." Sherlock leaned in, almost conspiratorially, still clasping the LED puck in thin fingers, "upon doing some research to find a proper summarization, I've found that what we have can be best described as a facultative symbiosis."

"Which is...what exactly?"

He put his palms together, pointing at John like a prayer, his vision glazing. "A mutual coexistence of two unlike organisms which benefits both parties equally through individual means. Take for example the clownfish and the anemone; they rely on one another, though not obligatorily. They could choose to live separately, but their natural instinct is to seek out what the other can provide. The anemone provides a home and protection and the clownfish provides food. They exist /together/ while being biologically separate. There's a sort of co-evolution taking place between us John. I can feel it." He came sliding back into those hauntingly pale eyes. "If you're blind to such facts then you're even more of an idiot than I give you credit for."

"Oh cheers! Glad that's settled then." John slapped his hand down on the table, reclaiming the slipper he'd lost to the floor and padding over to fill a glass from the tap. Not entirely sure how to handle his friend when his words twisted up something inside him. 

Though he admitted silently to himself that he was touched. Vocally, he opted for humor, or what he could only find as a close approximation. "To symbiotic relationships then. And, of course, the BeeGees." He raised a cheeky toast.

"Sorry, who?" Sherlock lifted his cold coffee to meet it, blinking at him with his eyebrows furrowed.

"Nothing. Ignore it." He drained his glass and cleared his throat. Chuffed and uncomfortable. "I suppose we should tidy up a bit before our client gets here?" John suggested, resurveying the clutter and noticing that the chill had left him. It was replaced by a gentle, heavy burn in his guts.

"Tidy what?" Sherlock asked, genuinely more confused. "Looks perfectly fine to me."

"'Course it does." John chuckled. Already aware that the next couple of hours were going to be spent with himself doing all of the cleaning and already planning on goading Sherlock into playing something on the violin while he worked. 

On all accounts, this was the best morning that could have happened after such a terrible evening. "Fancy a fire?" He asked and set to work without waiting for an answer. Leaving his friend to clutch at his luminous brain.

//

Somewhere around eleven thirty the LED had finally faded out and John resigned himself to simply shutting the sliding doors to the kitchen to save time. Sherlock had gotten dressed in one of his dark, trim suits and had collapsed on the couch with his violin across his narrow chest. 

Man and instrument had just finished playing 'Allegro molto appassionato' in E minor, and lay sprawled in such a way that he looked absolutely post coital. Limber and satisfied down to his marrow. If Sherlock were to partake in such dull practices anyway. 

John had milled about him with pointed glances and admiring stares, straightening things up. But not overly much. It was all quite a grand distraction. "That was gorgeous." He ejaculated, unable to help himself.

"It is one of Mendelssohn's better ones." Sherlock accepted the praise in his own way, sounding slightly out of breath.

John set out their nice tea set, admired his roaring fire, and heard the kettle boil just as the doorbell downstairs rang.

John was relatively small in stature, though his decorated military career had taught him how to grow to easily fill a room if he need be. He was solid and strong, with a short cap of gray blonde hair and a knee-hammer face. Unassumingly handsome with the deep, fathomless eyes of an old soul who'd lived a million lifetimes and was waiting to see a million more. 

So when he opened the door to their client, he was delighted to find that he met the man eye to eye. He was Asian and stone faced, wrapped up in an expensive suit. His dark black eyes matched the shine of his slicked back hair. Two bulkier men flanked him, using stiff posture to look menacing. John knew his ramrod posture when he took it could rival their's any day, so he swept his arm to the side congenially and invited them in.

"Hello. Welcome. I'm Doctor John Watson. Pleasure to meet you. Detective Sherlock Holmes is upstairs." The words still felt a bit odd to say all together. But he was getting more use to it.

"Detective Sherlock-san?" The client asked in a stuttering, heavy accent, glancing oddly around the foray and pointing up. He no doubt thought he'd perhaps come to the wrong place. John wondered if they should have a discussion about putting a sign up outside.

"Yes sir, that's right. If you'll just follow me." There was a hushed conversation behind him as he led the man and his two companions upstairs, directing them to one of their chairs. 

Sherlock was standing when they entered, his violin put away and he bowed deeply when the men entered. And then in the blink of an eye broke into perfectly fluent and perfectly foreign Japanese. If he'd had any forewarning on the matter of today's client, he'd left John completely out of the loop.

John immediately felt himself alienated within the room of people. He hesitated awkwardly for a moment, hovering, before disappearing into the kitchen to put together a tray of edibles as slowly as he could. All the while tilting an ear towards the deep baritone of Sherlock's voice sounding completely at ease speaking in a moraic secondary language against the serious, high agglutinative morphemes of the client's. He rolled his eyes, but remained mostly amazed.

They seemed to be partaking in a volley of question and answer, occasionally dropping what John believed to be the word 'peppermint' in English every so often, which made it even more confusing. The two men who had flanked the man speaking had remained standing and John guessed them to be some sort of body guards. And drawing back to Sherlock's pointed address to the client as 'Chairman Asano-san' when he'd come in, John surmised that he was possibly someone of importance. 

When John reemerged, he put on a generous smile and made a round with the tray before taking his seat. Taking pride in the little triangle sandwiches Mrs. Hudson had helped teach him to cut, which turned one square of bread into three crust less Isosceles. With surgeon's hands, it was a surprisingly simple task.

Though he wore a calm facade and what he hoped to be an interested look, he felt like an utter tit. Raising his eyebrows every so often when Asano-san or Sherlock would look in his direction, hoping they'd suddenly break into a conversation he could partake in. But it never happened. He twitched uncomfortably in his seat and fought the notion that they were talking about him. As it seemed highly unlikely.

With a motion of Asano-san's hand, one of the body guards presented Sherlock with a 9x12" glossy picture and as he passed it over John saw that it was of a small, vivid red and white fish against a background of artificial blue. Its variegated stripes ran vertically across its entire body, punctuated by a bright yellow face and small, protuberant black eyes. For lack of a better word, John would say that it was cute.

He passed the photo back with a nod, drifting hopelessly again as the client's hand thwacked at the photo and his voice grew higher in volume. Irritated. Sherlock's baritone remained passive however, though not to the point where it sounded as if he was bored, which he was more than willing to use should a client fail to meet his steep standards of interest. He'd brought his fingertips together against his chin in the usual manner he did when he was thinking, a habit long fashioned of practice.

John sipped at his tea and chewed slowly, feeling suddenly silly halving the little butty when he could shove the whole thing into his mouth in one go. But he knew his manners. So he shifted uncomfortably some more and flexed the pained crackle out of his left fingers as inconspicuously as he could. He didn't enjoy feeling so unmoored, though there were a lot of things about his new life here that he was learning that he would simply have to grow accustomed to.

In Afghanistan, he'd been at least one step ahead at all times; clear of his orders and crystal on the objective. Letting circumstances fall as they may. He performed his duties admirably, with diligence and esteem. But back in London again, and embroiled in the capriciousness that was Sherlock Holmes, John felt he was always at least a step behind. Holding on with both hands simply because he had no choice. Shining only in the glaring refraction of the mad man's genius. It took adjusting, he knew. Time and patience.

After all, Afghanistan had been at the bottom of an ocean millions of years ago. Change was bound to happen.

He came back to himself as the sitting men began to rise to their feet, realizing too late that his gaze had fallen on Sherlock and had left him staring blankly into the middle distance. But if the detective noticed this at all, he gave no indication.

John bowed obligingly as he showed the client out the front door, Sherlock having made his salutations from the threshold of the flat. Asano-san said something to John with a small smile, the only one he'd seen the whole visit, and handed him a small white card. He bowed again and turned towards an idling car at the kerb and was gone.

John flipped it over and studied it, sighing pointedly at its simple Kanji characters and the additional pile of confusion on top of what he believed was the start of a humming headache.

"Sherlock?" John's brain boiled with questions as he came bounding back up the stairs, but the man was nowhere to be found. He heard a door shut just as he slid open the ones to the kitchen, frowning. As if he'd purposely vacated the scene at John's approach. The brain was still in chunks on the table and left abandoned like some poor monster. Forming a gelatinous substance around its base. John's laptop was gone.

"Sherlock?" He rapped at Sherlock's bedroom door. "Mind telling me what that was all about?"

"A fish. Obviously." His tone through the door sounded occupied, resistant to answer his question.

"Yes. I got that much." John crossed his arms, licking his bottom lip. "What about the fish though? Some elaboration might be nice."

"It appears to have gone missing."

"Missing? What?" It sounded preposterous. "That's the case then? A missing fish? And you're actually taking it?"

"Yes. /Obviously/ John!"

"Alright. Easy. I'm just asking." John didn't understand the sudden shift in emotion that was playing out behind the door. Had Asano-san said something? Was there more going on? John made to move away, but then hesitated. "Hey Sherlock? The Chairman handed me something when I was downstairs. A business card, I think, but I can't read it. Can you, I dunno, maybe take a look at it? Tell me what you think?"

The door cracked open and a thin hand shot out, snapping impatiently when he didn't hand it over fast enough. A moment later it was shoved back under the door. "I've no idea. Now would you mind leaving me alone?" His tone was cutting and absolutely finite.

"Yeah. Sure." John's pride prickled a little as he bent to pick up the paper and left, twisting his neck freely against the jolt that burrowed down the length of his humorous. Certainly not the first time feeling dejected, John tended to the fledgling fire and avoided going near the breezy windows. Whatever was eating at Sherlock would come out later, he was sure of it. 

All he'd have to do was to wait. 

//

The afternoon progressed somewhat in a linear, if not slightly downward fashion. With Sherlock only emerging from his bedroom when John's fifth warning actually resulted in the binning of the electrolyte-devoid brain into one of the biohazard sacks Sherlock had nicked a while ago from St. Bart's. He was dressed back in his pajamas looking cranky and introspective, refusing all inquiries about the secretive fish. Oscillating from dark window to dark window and arguing with John whenever he made an attempt at conversation. Claiming to be irreversibly and absolutely bored. 

"It doesn't even rate above five!" 

"Then why'd you take it!?"

"I NEED a CASE!"

A question about dinner had stopped the tiger-in-confinement stalking on the spot. His eyes narrowed and his words intending to eviscerate. 

John was out of the flat so fast he forgot his muffler. And nearly forgot his phone.

Down on the street, he regretted half-heartedly slamming the door, if only for Mrs. Hudson's sake. But it was made all the worse when a large and terrible sound erupted behind him. He spun around as a six-foot sheet of solid plywood splintered down onto the pavement, pulling a startled scream from a woman on the opposite side of the pavement. One of very few pedestrians out at this time of night. Stupidly braving this cold weather.

Sherlock was hanging out the gaping maw of the window like a psychotic buccaneer, indifferent to the billowing smoke of his breath. "If you truly wanted to make yourself useful John Watson. You'd bring me back a good old fashioned murder!"

There were sharp gasps from the neighbors drawn out by the noise and John felt a lead weight drop into his guts. His ears scorched immediately red hot and it had nothing to do with the cold. He wished desperately that he had chosen to sleep through this weird and frankly horrible day. Or perhaps awaken from the nightmare it had become.

But instead, he buried his face further into his upturned collar and raised his middle finger in high salute, trudging away down the street and off into the welcome arms of the night. Preferring never to have heard the name Sherlock Holmes.

//

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for those interested i've included a link to what I imagined Sherlock playing while John cleaned the flat...
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kt6vchVn9Wo&feature=youtube_gdata - Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto in E Minor from Op. 64: | Allegro Molto Appassionato
> 
> -
> 
> Asano-san's name is based on Tadanobu Asano, one of my favorite Japanese actors.


	2. The Adventures of the Toothpaste Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock apologizes in his own way.

//

'Left at the skip. It's a shortcut.' - SH

John sighed down at his phone, which was hardly a unique reaction to the device, but at two in the morning it carried the extra weight of hunger, fatigue, and the cauterized edge of raw emotion.

He pulled the grocery sack up against an errant burst of wind and cursed as it did little to stave off its striking chill. 

He'd caught himself navel gazing more than once in the supermarket, eyes lost in the middle distance, standing in the way in the aisle, before he forced himself to leave and head back home. Burdened with a score of random edibles he'd gathered together with no real thought.

He'd resigned himself to return to Baker Street, if only for the fact that he had a shift to do at the hospital in the early afternoon. And he'd just pointed himself in that direction, when his mobile had buzzed.

'Why should I?' He'd texted back with stiff fingers. There wasn't any real heat in the words, though he didn't need Sherlock to know that. Not that emotion through text ever translated well. But it would do the great git some good to think he was still upset.

He found his feet headed contradictorily towards the suggested skip, however, taking the alley to the parallel road and trying diligently not to come to terms with the fact that his flatmate was surreptitiously stalking him through the location of his phone's GPS. Something he'd insisted on after the pool incident.

'Don't be petty John. This is important.' - SH

He let out an incredulous scoff in the night and his phone pinged again before he could get cold thumbs to poke out a rebuttal.

'And hurry up. Take the perpendicular street North and then straight ahead from there. You'll know when you've arrived.' - SH

The leather patched jacket he'd snatched up on his hasty departure was being terribly insufficient. But he suffered the burn in his cheeks and the numbness in the tip of his nose all the same. Taking on a fast clip at the call of danger. The bone-borne hup-two of military platitude. 

As he broke out onto Gloucester, the calamity materialized.

What he saw first was the squad car lights ricocheting against the buildings and as he sidled up to the barrier tape there were a handful of people huddled together, gesturing in hoary clouds of emphatic breath. Met officers scratched at their notepads, taking eye witness accounts and trying to piece together what had actually happened. 

John quickly singled out a woman slumped boneless in the back of an ambulance, buried under a blanket, sobbing openly into her hands. He recognized the other woman with the wiry hair standing next to her, and offered a small smile when Sergeant Sally Donovan met his gaze. Not at all surprised when she rudely brushed him off and turned back to the weepy woman, muttering something with a vexed air into her radio.

The crying woman wore a dark, double breasted uniform with a round leather fob hanging from her pocket like a tongue. And with another sweep of his eyes, John spotted the cardinal hulk of a double-decker night bus that she must have been the driver of looming at the far end of the cordoned off perimeter. 

A series of floodlights and a large tarpaulin had been erected down the street, blocking whatever had happened to the smattering of gawkers collecting on the pavement around him. A clutch of constables made an odd shadow against the screen and from among them, a man with a tired face that was becoming more and more a friend began the long trek towards him. 

A young community support officer in a neon yellow coat reached John first, holding up a hand. "Sorry, sir. You'll need to move along. There's been an accident." He looked absolutely miserable, with his nose and ears bitten to a bright red, trying to wick what heat he could from a paper cup of coffee. John could already tell that he'd started to shiver.

"Yes. Sorry. I saw the lights while I was walking home and thought I might be of help. I'm a doctor." He craned his neck and stood on tiptoes, his heart skipping a beat when he finally clapped eyes on the wraith-like figure standing in his signature Belstaff coat off in the distance. The Consulting Detective all ready for his close up. Still managing to put off a six foot swath of attitude despite being buried in heavy wool.

"Finally! Jesus! Let him through!" Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade's smooth face looked drawn, working his jaws around the last half of a chocolate-iced doughnut. His silver hair glittered in the bright artificial lights as he beckoned for John to come join them in the madness. "Certainly took your sweet time, eh? Sherlock's got us freezing our bollocks off waiting for you. Wouldn't let us touch anything and won't tell us why. I suspect he's keen on doing the bit where he knocks us on our ass and couldn't /not/ have you around to do it." His grin was a little too real.

"Ah, well, ta for being gracious." John offered, in apologetic appreciation.

"Right? 'Til you, I would have never pegged him for the sort - to actually /choose/ to wait to do his thing, I mean. What gets me, is why this one?" He went on. "I thought it looked like a pretty straightforward collision, just a bad mix of pedestrian and bus, y'know. Wouldn't think this'd be worth his time." He scratched his head. "And you know what the absolute kicker is, is how the hell he even knew it was here!"

"You didn't call him?" John asked, puzzled.

Lestrade barked a laugh. "Nah. He just sort of, /showed up/. Wouldn't tell me how he knew, but I didn't pry too deep. Seems to be in a bit of a strop as much as I can tell. Well, more than usual anyway." He cast a sideways glance to John. "Bit late for shopping in'nit?" 

"Oh." John glanced at the bag as if he'd only just noticed it still in his hands. "Um, yeah. Couldn't sleep." The cover was slipshod, but he hoped Lestrade would respect his boundaries, despite the hundreds more questions that passed over his tan face.

Lestrade eventually lost the battle, trying again for conversation. It was taking a while to get back to the corpse. "So how are you and Sherlock getting on living together? I don't know if I can imagine what he's like to be around twenty-four hours a day." There was true exasperation in Lestrade's voice.

John cleared his throat, trying to be vague. "Ah, well. I have my escapes." The bag became sudden evidence.

"Oh.../oh!/ Right." And his understanding, yet completely ignorant smile was the end to the awkwardness, to which John was grateful. 

He sniffed. "I guess all I really care about is that if Sherlock can get this scene wrapped up quicker with whatever mad explanation he's got for keeping us waiting, I'd be chuffed." He rubbed his bare hands and blew into them vigorously.

John nodded and slowed down at their approach, flexing his hand inside his coat pocket. 

Sherlock was pocketing his phone as he finally came abreast, the halogen light catching his eyes and turning them the strange color of vasoline in the cross view. He looked like a completely different man than the petulant one he'd left haunting the flat.

He addressed John like their previous row had never even taken place. That he hadn't hung from the hole in the wall in his house coat, yelling like a lunatic. And John went along with it, because now was not the time to air their dirty laundry, especially not in front of the canted eyes of New Scotland Yard. As they already suspected there was already enough gossip going on as it was.

"You've arrived just in time John. Look. Some kind soul had the good decency to die." He stepped aside with an almost reverent bow.

"Sherlock." John warned. "Remember how we talked about inappro-" But his rebuke died in his throat as he saw around the man who had been acting as a second screen. 

The body was lying twisted in the street. He had been young before tonight, dark blonde, attractive, and well dressed. Of medium height and a slender build. His ankles were crossed as if in repose, while his arms were thrown widely akimbo. His diaphanous face had come to rest stabbing up at the stars. 

But what John's professional eyes locked onto most pointedly was the gruesome, almost cartoonish cinch and swell of the young man's midsection. In combination to the crying woman and the double-decker bus, it left a pretty good guess as to what had been the cause of his death. Even if the results seemed impossible to believe.

In a sort of grim way, the body looked to be the human equivalent to a half-squeezed tube of toothpaste. And in some place far off in his brain, John realized he should have bought mouthwash.

"Alright, now that everyone's present and accounted for, can we please get on with it?" Lestrade urged, directing his words toward Sherlock the most.

"Oh for god's sake!" The high snipe of investigator Philip Anderson started up like gunfire. "I can't believe you're allowing this! I thought we were waiting for the doctor so the self-proclaimed "sociopath" could LEAVE! Now we've got two bloody people we don't have any need for at what's clearly NOT a crime scene." He gesticulated wildy as he whined, his loose full body forensic suit he was wearing was pierced with the light, giving him the illusion of a flailing insect caught in spider's silk. "This is an accident scene, NOT a murder investigation. Sir! Sir?" 

"Oi. One more word, Anderson, and it will make it three!" Lestrade threatened. "And a second opinion's not going to hurt anything. Right doctor? Probably even get this buttoned up quicker." There was an elbow in John's side and he smiled. He always did appreciate Lestrade's generosity. Especially towards the batshit requests of his flatmate.

"A sentiment we seem to both agree upon." Sherlock said haughtily. "Shall I begin?" Taking his own cue, Sherlock crouched down with a familiar flip of his coat, adjusted his prophylactic gloves. The leather in his shoes groaned angrily and he waited at least for Greg's customary shrug.

In a brief dance of movement, he consumed the scene with a quick shuffle of his eyes. Cataloguing, referencing, absorbing. Pale hands fluttering like nitrile butterflies. He sniffed at the body, scrutinized its suit, he shook the corpse down and felt it up. He probed inside the man's mouth and palpated on his misplaced stomach. 

He popped up and walked back to the bus. Examining the grill and tires in due turn. Then he swept back to the corpse, scanning the ground all the while, his feet working in a sort of lazy tango. 

When his gloves finally came off with the balloon-smack of consummation, his mouth was a thinly pressed line. "This is most definitely murder." 

Lestrade put up a hand to Anderson's exasperated gasp, then buried it against his chest. "Alright Sherlock, make it quick. I'd like to get this scene packed up before we all turn to icicles." 

"I'd be delighted." Sherlock steepled his long fingers against his smirk and the city around them seemed to slip into silence to listen. "The victim was in his mid thirties. A local, most likely, who'd just visited his dentist and a lover. Perhaps they are one in the same, but as of this moment it's a bit too hard to quantify. Whomever killed Mr. John Doe tonight gave him a strong lateral shove from behind, most likely at shoulder height. Hard enough to take him off of his feet in one motion. 

"The bus's front passenger tire caught him first at full speed, rolling the body three times before the rear tire struck him again and pinned his lower body in place, well within the typical three second delay of unfocused human reaction, revealing to us that the driver had slammed on the brakes. Naturally. But by then it was too late. The catalyst of the body rolling in combination with the rear tire suddenly losing momentum wrenched the body 'round like an aluminum can." He spun his hands against each other for effect. "By which he ended up in his current position. I'd say the bus had to have been traveling at around sixty kilometers an hour to do something like that." His voice dropped reverently. "It's a rather beautiful cause and effect, in a way. What's your opinion on it Doctor Watson?"

Caught off guard, John blinked and adjusted the sack in his hand. His brain fuzzing out around Sherlock's strange adoration. "Yea-yes. Well, from here, it looks like his vertebrae's been crushed from T9 through at least L3. Pelvis turned a full 360 degrees to his chest." His eyebrows were nearly touching his hairline, like saying it out loud made it all the more real. "And his entire alimentary canal's been forced up into his thoracic cavity. I don't know about being shoved, but this is certainly something I've never seen. Anatomically speaking."

"But you /can/ confirm that he was laying horizontally on the street when the bus ran him over?" Sherlock's hands were clipped behind his back.

"I can, yes." There was no doubt.

"There. You see? Obvious."

"We've already spoken to the driver," Sergeant Sally Donovan interjected, having joined them. She directed her statement towards Lestrade, holding her body in a mess of sharp, hateful angles. Her back pointed especially to Sherlock, blocking him out. "She says that he threw himself in front of her."

"It would be ill-advised to consider the testimony of a driver who's sole focus was the end of her shift, as was evidenced by her speeding. It's clear she never saw anything. I, for one, prefer to rely on something a bit more substantial, like the FACTS. He was pushed." Insisted Sherlock. 

"But how can you be so sure?" Lestrade asked. Despite an almost audible eye roll from Donovan. "What difference does it make that he was lying down?"

Pleased at more attention, Sherlock obliged. "It matters in that if he'd voluntarily thrown himself out into oncoming traffic, he still would have involuntarily reacted, put his hands out as he fell. Abrasions on his cheek and a lack thereof on his palms immediately disregard that as the case. He would have been more likely to have the grill strike him in a glancing way had it been of his own volition, but as IT and HE didn't, it makes more sense that he had fallen completely and not had the time nor mind to get back up. Thusly being RUN OVER. 

"And I certainly find it hard to believe that he would choose to off himself after he'd just received a £2600 suit! So that means whomever pushed him was close to him. He trusted them. They knew each other intimately. Hence the lover. And in such short a time as to-"

"It's a lover because he was given a suit?" John asked naively.

Sherlock sighed with effort. "It's not simply a suit from Primark, /John/." He inflected his name as though he were replacing the word 'idiot'. "It was fitted specifically to him from an admirer. Given the intimacy of it, I'd say this was a crime of passion."

"So can't we just follow the suit back to the tailor? Get John Doe's information from them?" Lestrade became more enlightened and more weary as he listened. 

"It's nice to see you're finally doing your job Detective Inspector. Despite how rubbish your methods might be." Sherlock softened his frown. "This suit has the signature stitch of a highly skilled tailor, but lacks the ostentatiousness of a commercial one. So it clearly came from a family's personal tailor. Skills passed on through a lineage. His father before him, his before him, that sort of junk. Practically untraceable. You'll have better luck following whatever car bore him here on the CCTV."

"He was driven?" Someone asked.

Sherlock sighed again, almost a growl, while they all shifted against his genius like barley in a breeze. "Why must you always insist on never seeing what is NOT HERE! Where's his coat? Nobody in there right mind would come out in this weather dressed as insufficiently as this. Not if they were being driven. And there's the lack of money, identification, and Oyster card in any of his pockets. So, again, /missing/ evidence that CLEARLY means something to us. What his mode of transportation was.

"Although there IS light scuffing on the souls of his brand new shoes, which suggests that his killer walked with him a bit as well. Helped to ensure that he was at the wrong place at the wrong time. All of these things reinforced by the fact that he was under the direct influence of a sedative."

"How do you...?" John murmured. 

"There's residue beneath his tongue. A sublingual barbiturate of some sort. Clever really, considering he's just been to the dentist. Oh right. I did mention one of those, didn't I? No one would think to question something like that being in his bloodstream. By the time you lot would have taken a blood sample - IF you had even bothered to take one in the first place - you would have come to correlate it with the fact that he's recently had his first and second molars removed. But by then it would have been too late, so it is to your great benefit that I happened by, because the irritation to his gums is at least a day old, so that makes the appearance of the drug /now/ highly questionable. That in itself should be evidence enough for you to make this about /murder/." He cast them each a pointed glare and spun dramatically on his heel, stripping off his gloves as he went.

He hesitated only a step when his familiar did not shadow him immediately, barely turning his head. He was clearly walking away. "Come along John. I believe we're done here. Sergeant Donovan? Text me the toxicology report when it goes through, if you would be so kind." 

"What! That's it? You're LEAVING! What are we to do now? Question every dentist in London? See which ones have pulled teeth in the last two days!" Anderson screeched, appalled. "That's impossible to go on!" 

"Improbable, Anderson." Sherlock corrected over his shoulder. "It's improbable."

"You're a pointless psychopath Sherlock Holmes! You've given us nothing!"

Sherlock turned quickly on the attack, vicious and practically slavering. "I've given you EVERYTHING of consequence! Before this you were content to chalk this up as suicide in total breech of the facts! Keeping your mouth shut and your eyes OPEN in the future might help them serve you a better purpose in doing your job!" Sherlock turned back, pulling long hands into leather gloves and letting the guts spill loose from the eviscerating words behind him, mumbling. "I don't consult to do your legwork as well."

"Alright! I want this scene packed up!" Lestrade's pinked hands were working in a helicopter motion. "You've got twenty minutes! I want the body gone over with a fine toothed comb. Find me everything. Anderson! Don't just stand there sulking. Bag him up!" 

New Scotland Yard dismantled the scene like a theatre production and paid no further attention to the figures disappearing into the night.

With nothing more than a nod of his head and an apologetic smile to the somewhat grateful DI, John left NSY to their work. He jogged to catch up to the man-like freight train rippling with so much energy he nearly shook the air around him, coming down off the rush.

John sidled up with his mind reeling. "You could have done that with a bit more tact."

Sherlock's head nearly spun on his neck to look over at him. "Tact! What are you talking about? I was incredibly tactful."

"Noooooo, Sherlock. That was the least tactful I've seen you do yet, which is saying something. Now, don't get me wrong, that was at the same time absolutely bloody fucking amazing! But no, 'tactful' doesn't even come close to describing what you just did back there." He stabbed a thumb over his shoulder, like what they were retreating from was wreckage.

"It was rather amazing, wasn't it?" Sherlock's face suddenly split into an inhuman grin as he faced forward. Drowning in his ego.

John let him languish for a little while, letting the embarrassment and guilt dissolve, before speaking more to the scene. "I don't think I've ever even heard of anything like that happening. I mean, it's a bloody miracle that guy stayed all in one piece getting mowed over like that."

"Yes." Sherlock said absently, he was stroking his bottom lip with the tips of his forefingers. "How long do you think that deduction took? Saying, perhaps if you had clocked it. How long, do you think?"

"Haven't the faintest. But I think that was definitely the quickest one you've ever done. As long as you didn't let yourself peek beforehand. Did you? Nah. That would go against your rules, I think" John asked. "How long had you guys been waiting there?"

"Oh. Forty seven minutes, give or take. It wasn't a problem."

John chuckled, despite himself. "Sherlock, it's like zero degrees out."

"Negative three. But I still don't see your point."

It would probably be best to let that one simmer, John would figure it out eventually. "Doesn't matter. Never mind." 

Bigger issues pressed back into his mind, unable to be dazzled away any longer.

He lapsed back into the time he had spent floating idle in the supermarket, having stood in the crisps aisle deciding why he felt the way he did, fighting the panic of having left Sherlock alone in the flat, and what he was going to say to him once he saw him again. "Sherlock?" John began after clearing his throat.

"You've no need, John." Sherlock spoke calmly, as if this was all secondhand information. "You've already made your guilt for leaving quite evident, you don't need to apologize." He seemed to know exactly what he was thinking and how he felt. "I still don't understand how you consider yourself to be responsible for the building across the street exploding /in your absence/. It's not as though you laid the bomb yourself."

"But I wasn't there!" John practically shouted as the words struck home. "I should have been there."

"Why? What difference would that have made?"

He paused. "None whatsoever. It still would have happened. But...y'know what? Just sod it. Forget I even brought it up." John was losing ground and changed tactics. He couldn't ever hope to explain how bad he'd felt walking out of 221B and finding out about the explosion on the telly at Sarah's the next morning. He was just happy Sherlock hadn't gotten injured. "How do you even know I feel guilty?"

Sherlock hooked the sack with his finger to tilt it and point out the obvious clue. "You had to walk past two other supermarkets to get me the special brand of chocolate biscuits I prefer. And it's hardly beyond you to deny your natural instinct to be a wet blanket. I saw the way you were observing me when you arrived tonight, you were deciding if I'd done anything impulsive."

"Well, did you?"

The corner of Sherlock's mouth curled wryly. "Not anything of much consequence."

John thought about asking what he'd done, but he let it alone. Reverting back to his initial intention, now that he had calmed. "But you /do/ understand that I'm still upset about what happened, yes? That's why I left. I didn't have another option." Lately, he'd found it more helpful explaining his emotions to Sherlock, who never seemed to understand them at the time. It was a bit like talking to a six foot, broad shouldered child.

"John-" 

"Let me get this out while it still means something," John continued, reaching out to take Sherlock's arm and stop them fully on the pavement. He wanted his friend to truly understand what had happened. He knew that Sherlock was used to working alone, but it wouldn't be like that anymore. "I'm sorry that I left Sherlock, but you REALLY pissed me off. I want to bloody throttle you when you act like that. You can't treat me like a punching bag just because you're bored! What you said was cruel. I don't even remember exactly--"

"I told you that if your presence was no longer of value to me than your absence would make no difference." 

"Right, that. Thanks for reminding me." John blinked. "The point is, you brought me into this agreement under the circumstances that I was here to provide you someone to help you make rent. Then we agreed to cases together 'cause you thought I could help you given my background, and it worked out too that I became your blogger. Fine. But I'm under no circumstances to be held personally responsible for your lack of cases. Alright? Besides, you've got one on as we speak."

"I wouldn't go so far as to call it a case; it's more a distraction than anything." Sherlock muttered.

John began walking again. Not willing to spend a night in the cold dithering on about semantics. It was a few paces before the detective easily caught back up and fell into step with him. Damn his long gait.

"What I said only applied at that particular moment in time John. But, you should know that I regret having said it. It won't happen again." Sherlock swallowed the hard knot in his throat, choking to get out his next words. "I ...value your companionship greatly. Despite anything I might say to the contrary. You have become vital to my work."

"Alright, alright. Don't get sentimental." John smiled. He steered the conversation back into more familiar territory. "So how'd you know that suit didn't belong to the dead man already? Maybe he bought it for himself?"

"His cuticles." Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's shrug. "They were shabby. He wouldn't have bought a three-piece suit for that much and not possessed the narcissism to get his nails done. Plus it hadn't been worn long enough to fully smell like him yet."

"Couldn't he have just got it back from the dry cleaners?" John suggested, his voice trailing off as he saw the look come over Sherlock's face.

"No one would accuse you of vanity, John." Sherlock scoffed. "A bespoke RARELY get dry cleaned. That's entirely the point of them. Chemicals would only warp the wool. Besides, the smell was all wrong. It smelled like steam iron press and something...organic. I can't place it exactly, which is irritating. 

"Everyone gives off unique pheromones, body odor, excretions from the skin, that sort of thing. But the man's scent and the one on his clothes were mismatched. It usually takes about a day and a half to fully saturate the fabric with a distinct odor, the only variable being what's being done in the clothes while the person wears it. Exertion would let it saturate more quickly as opposed to inactivity."

"Whatever it is, it's certainly not from a dry cleaners." He shuffled the irritant to the back of his mind to unconsciously think on with a sigh. "The corpse had been wearing the suit for at least ten hours before he died. Factoring in conduction of heat against the temperature of the street he was lying on as it affected Algor mortis...what?"

"Hang on a minute," a thought struck John and Sherlock took notice. The intricacies of the night coalescing. "Did you just hold up a death investigation to /impress/ me?"

"Ah good! Your powers of observation still have some hope yet." Sherlock said, looking pleased. "I find that it does tend to soften your regard when I've managed to upset you in some way."

"So that's your way of apologizing, is it?" John ventured with a knowing smile.

Sherlock flexed his mouth in a somewhat answer, off kilter for the second time tonight, unable to find the words. The tip of his large nose was burnished to a rosy pink and he was folded more tightly into his coat. The cold was finally getting to him.

John chuckled. "You could have just said sorry."

"But that's boring John." Sherlock squinted, not understanding his reaction.

"Right. Better not do that." It finally occurred to John that their walking had led them within proximity to Baker Street, but not heading directly towards it. "We're not going back to the flat?"

"You've not eaten anything substantial in sixteen hours. And it seems I still owe you dinner." Sherlock said idly. "Is that boring enough?"

John sniffed against the cold. "It'll due I suppose." And allowed the detective to lead the way.

//

"Honestly John, you're insulting three thousand years of tradition." Sherlock's arms were folded across his chest, surveying the catastrophe taking place across the table. The rosy tips on both their faces had begun to subside now that they were out of the cold. Sherlock had led them to the same Chinese restaurant he'd taken John to after their case John had posted on their blog and titled: 'A Study in Pink'. The first case they'd ever solved together. 

And he couldn't help himself if he admired the way he caught John nonchalantly checking the bottom third of the door handle as they came in. 

"Shut up." John warned against the harmless insult, the tip of his tongue was pressed against his bottom lip, his hands fumbling around a pair of wooden chopsticks that kept slipping loose of his grasp. One too many times it seemed finally. "Sod it all! Christ. I'll never get it. I'm going to bloody starve to death."

Back at the flat he was more apt to use a fork, but out in public Sherlock seemed to frown heavily in his direction if he tried such nontraditional means.

Sherlock chuckled, "here." He reached out and took hold of both utensil and hand, manipulating John's fingers until he had them pinched appropriately, loosely, held like a pen in his right hand. John flexed them experimentally and found he could finally pinch up some of the steaming chow mein that was making his mouth flood with saliva. 

"Oh ta." John thanked him. "I can pinch closed a squidgy artery, god knows. But apparently managing a pair of sticks is beyond my skill." He happily tucked into his meal then, learning and readjusting as he went, quickly getting the hang of it. The hunger and the cold and the stress made the oily, salty, richness of the food absolute heaven.

Sherlock quietly watched him eat, his thumb against his bottom lip, thinking on the crushed man.

"So?" John finally spoke around a squelching dumpling, a healthy portion of naturally occurring MSG quickly consumed.

Sherlock started from his abstraction. "So?"

"Is this how we're going to drum up business from now on? Chasing ambulances?"

"Certainly not." Sherlock smiled. "That was ...chance."

"Oh, no no." John waggled his finger, one cheek full. "You don't leave things to chance; you're too bloody clever for that. How'd you even come to be there anyway? Lestrade said he'd only just got the call when you showed up."

"I have my methods." He said as the means to a diversion. "Let's talk about something else."

"Like explaining why you were acting like such berk tonight?" John dove in with both feet and expertly sucked up a noodle. Emboldened by sating his basic needs. Food, warmth, companionship.

"How come you didn't go to Sarah's tonight?" Sherlock parried again. "Wouldn't you have been welcome?"

"Why are you suddenly bringing up Sarah?" John knew they would loop back to the topic eventually, he would make it inevitable.

"I don't know, perhaps I had assumed you were still ...going steady? Or whatever the parlance is these days."

John smiled. "Um, no. We've separated. We sort of grew apart and both agreed it wasn't going to work out."

"But you slept on her sofa just the other night. And she's called you four times since then." Sherlock said evenly.

John shifted in his seat, simultaneously shocked and not, pushing his food around. "I missed some days at work while /we/ were out working. She was just checking to see if I was alright, which was actually very nice of her considering she's had an insider's view on what we do. And sorry, how do you know she called me four times?"

"I needed to use your phone." Sherlock could hardly be arsed to pick up an arm to shrug for that. "Why didn't you ever call her back?"

John pushed at his bottom lip with his tongue unconsciously, marvelling at the naivety of his friend. "I can't just phone back and expect her to accept my taking time off 'cause I'm racing 'round London after a serial bomber, Sherlock. Besides, I don't think she's still gotten over the whole kidnapping thing by the Black Lotus. Our lives might be a bit much for her."

"Oh. That's a shame." John saw the exact moment Sherlock dismissed her from his mind forever. "Best to let her down easy I suppose."

"Yeah." John said, going back to his food. Sarah had been nice, but the longer the relationship went on, the less and less she came around the flat. She would always ask that they meet up somewhere else, especially in public, reassuring that John would be sans Sherlock every time. Communication between them at work had dwindled as well until it was simple courtesies and platonic smiles. 

There was never any outward show of affection while he worked locum, but John had really known it was doomed to fail when Sherlock had invited himself along to their date that night at the Chinese circus. Not even needing to include their harrowing escape.

"You're not going to start sulking about the flat bemoaning your inability to get shagged now are you?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

John nearly choked mid bite, suddenly insulted. "I--*cough* Listen, Sherlock. I have never had a problem getting a leg over and I certainly have never sulked about it out loud. Besides, Sarah and I hadn't even--no. Stop." He realized what he was unconsciously revealing and halted. "This isn't the place for this conversation. In fact, I'm not even having this conversation. Let's go back to where I'm eating and you've apologized and neither of us are talking about any of this. I don't need to discuss my love life with you."

"Or lack thereof." The chopsticks clattered to the table and Sherlock smiled self-satisfyingly into John's dark glare.

Knowing that he would keep at it if allowed, John rewound their talk. "So, going back to what I said. I think /I've/ figured out why you were acting like such an arse."

"Have you? Please do indulge me." Sherlock took up the chopsticks and deftly spun a nest of chow mein around them, dropping it into his mouth.

John leant back from his plate, holding his gaze, putting it bluntly. "You were fiending. Before you say anything, just hear me out. Your work is your life, yeah? You told me that yourself. When 'The Game' is, well, when it's on, it's great. You're happy, you're engaged; you've got loads of endorphins pumping through you. Plus you've usually got adrenaline coursing through your system too from the cases that involve running."

John wiped the corner of his mouth with his napkin, deeply invested in what he was saying. Like it had come to him as a revelation. "This last time it was for the better part of a week that we were off and going nonstop. So it's like a biological high for you, as much as I don't want to say it that way. It is. And in the comedown, you're crashing. Does that make sense so far? 'Cause I think it finally makes sense to me. 

"You never think you're going to get it back so you lash out. I suppose I should have recognized it sooner, being a doctor and all." He reached across the table and squeezed Sherlock's wrist companionably, before taking back his chopsticks. He winced a little at Sherlock's blank face. "It's not coming out right, I know. But what I'm trying to say, is that...is that I understand. Okay? The rush, the climax, the free fall afterward. It can be overwhelming to think you're ever going to achieve it again. But you will. We will. I promise. It'll be fine."

Sherlock withdrew like a night-blooming jasmine flower against daylight. Feeling as though John had just pierced right through the core of him into his dark, nucleic center and saw him for what he truly was. A junky in need of a fix. And John, his sponsor, who'd been there before, done that. 

And it took only a split second for Sherlock to convince himself to execute a plan to keep this man in his life until it became the end of one of them.

John, however, didn't seem to notice this universal shift. Continuing to talk down at his rapidly disappearing food. "Although next time the mood strikes, if you could avoid the part involving public humiliation, I'd appreciate it. Sherlock? Are you even listening?"

Sherlock met his eyes, deciding that he would not let John know that he had just rocked his entire foundation. "Sorry. What?" John let out a snort. "Nothing. Never mind. Do you want to get out of here? I'm stuffed."

"Christ John, you could have left /something/ for the busboy to clean." Sherlock paid and they left, having to remind John not to leave his shopping behind.

They had turned onto Baker Street before either of them spoke again. John feeling satisfied with food and Sherlock contemplating all the information swirling about in his head. He slowed his pace to allow John to walk ahead, to arrive at the flat first. He almost didn't think John would even notice.

"Oi! Did you do this while we were out?" John was grinning up at the new windows, which made it look as though nothing had ever happened to 221B.

"I pulled some strings. Asked for a favor." Sherlock said simply.

John had to think about it. "Getting a window crew to work at two in the morning in freezing cold is more than a favor, Sherlock. What'd you do, exonerate someone else from a triple murder?" Then it struck him. "You called your brother, didn't you?"

Sherlock beamed at John, despite the mention of his sibling. "He always feels charitable during winter. I think it's because it lets him hide his midsection with layers." They entered quietly, so as not to wake Mrs. Hudson and headed upstairs. "Anyway, he was the one who phoned me in the first place. It turns out that he'd just so happened to have exited a meeting that included Chairman Asano."

John's mouth quirked. "What kind of meetings take place in the middle of the night?"

"Ones that the government doesn't want the commonwealth finding out about." He whispered conspiratorially.

"Oh. I see. Wait, Asano? Wasn't that the client we had yesterday?"

"Indeed. He was in London for the day and had a bit of an issue involving his salt water hobby. He was recommended to me from a 'third party'. Though I heavily suspect it was Mycroft dropping my name."

The warmth of the sitting room was extraordinary against the night, made all the warmer with the new double insulated, top of the line windows. He wasn't sure how he'd pulled it, but Sherlock had somehow convinced someone to start and maintain a fire as well until they got there. Reclaiming the flat as a suitable home and no longer a heavily furnished ice box. 

John felt a deep sense of gratitude and contentment overcome him as he settled down into his chair. Sherlock remained in the kitchen, picking through the grocery sack, but not really putting anything away. He cracked open the biscuits and took one in his teeth, sucking the chocolate taste from them until they became a mush in his mouth. Discarding it after it changed texture. 

John recalled vaguely when Mr. Asano had thwacked the photo of the fish. "And you took the case...because?" Sherlock was already bent over John's laptop, typing away with both hands, hollowing his cheeks until they made a soft sucking sound. "Sherlock? Since when do you find a /fish/ interesting enough to make a case about it? I know it's not, you even said so, but you're still taking it. Why? You're certainly not doing it for Mycroft."

Sherlock flipped the biscuit in his tongue and pulled it into his mouth, chewing around his words and the only wafer he actually managed to fully swallow. John did notice. "Only because it gives me the opportunity to solve a locked room mystery from a continent away." He said coyly and John replied with a more confused face. "Unless, that is, you happened to buy two round-trip tickets to Tokyo from Tesco while you were out. No? Hm. Didn't think so. 

"Perhaps you'll be interested to learn that it's not just any old fish, John." Sherlock handed him his laptop, sharing the information he'd brought up. The page showed a similar picture to the one he'd seen earlier with some descriptive paragraphs off to the side. The little banded red and white fish was swimming against a natural background of bright, thick limbed sea stars and purple rocks. "/Centropyge boylei/ or more commonly known as the 'Peppermint Angelfish'. It's found in the steep seaward reefs of the South Pacific at depths of fifty-five to one hundred and twenty meters where it is collected by hand."

"I don't understand." There was nothing special about a fish.

"It's a true rarity in the marine aquarium industry, John. So much in fact that it's considered the crowning jewel of anyone's collection and requires deep pockets and museum-grade certification to obtain. Mr. Asano has been an avid collector for thirteen years now, and as his collection has grown, he has dedicated an entire room of his house to the hobby. He told me that he is currently in possession of fifteen tanks totalling seven hundred and sixty litres altogether. He claims to house everything in them from giant clams, an octopus, cuttlefish, angel fish, mantis shrimps, and nudibranchs, to incredibly large mother colonies of small polyp stony corals, anemones, and gorgonians."

"So what makes this one so important?" John didn't recognize half of those animals.

Sherlock slid his finger across the touchpad in a huff, scrolling to the bottom of the page to get John on the same wavelength. 

John nearly jumped out of his seat, the laptop bouncing on his knees. "Thir-! Thirty thousand pounds! For a fish! Jesus Christ!"

"Five million yen if you do the monetary conversion." Sherlock resumed his pacing behind him, fingers steepled against his chin, the biscuits abandoned. "So you can see how its loss has definitely left a significant hole in Mr. Asano's pocket."

John applied himself to the possibilities, brainstorming aloud. He knew Sherlock liked bouncing ideas around. "Maybe somebody took it then? Or maybe Mr. Asano wanted the insurance money off of it? Stole his own fish?" He stared with wide eyes at the price, recounting the figures four times just to make sure that the amount was really what it said it was worth.

"Rubbish, he wanted the fish. That was his prize. No, it was something else. His house has all the latest security monitoring available, along with armed guards at the front gate. There was nobody reported entering or leaving the residence the night it disappeared. Mr. Asano, a light sleeper, was the only occupant and claims to have heard nothing at all that caused a disturbance." Sherlock explained. 

John started to think about the money in a new way as he stopped being surprised, figuring that if their client could willingly spend thirty thousand quid on some silly fish, surely he could spend a good chunk on their consulting services. "It could have died maybe? Disappeared in the tank? When I was six I remember I got a goldfish from the fair and I added to my sister's tank, she already had a bigger one. And one day he just, wasn't there. Harry told me later that her fish had been beating him up and then ate him after he died..."

The length of Sherlock's pacing wicked down to a small trail right behind John's chair, the breadth of the front of the kitchen. He kept snatching glances over at the picture of the specimen, willing it to knock an idea loose. "Irrelevant. This fish was completely alone. It was being held in what they term a 'hospital" tank. A completely barren holding aquarium in which they monitor stress levels and the relative health of the fish until it's deemed fit to move into its intended display."

"So could it have jumped? Maybe didn't like the water? Do they even have the means to replicate ocean water nowadays? I suppose they do."

Sherlock had already thought of all this seven hours ago and couldn't help his irritation at John considering old ideas. "Mr. Asano performs twice daily checks to each individual aquarium, he certainly would have noticed if it had been on the floor. And I doubt our client would be moronic enough as to put it in an aquarium without a lid, John."

Sherlock's face tightened into a scowl at the walls he was constantly meeting in this maze, unable to get ahead of them. "Additionally, he hires a private company to monitor his aquarium's parameters twenty-four hours a day, perform regular water changes, and the like. They have remote access to water quality readings. Temperature, calcium, phosphorus, nitrates, nitrites, potassium, and ammonia were all verified to be ideal. They e-mailed me his equipments' data for the past three months. A service they provide to all their clients to monitor trends in the water."

A small sound interrupted them and Sherlock located his phone. "Lorazepam, excellent!"

"Is that from Sally? That was quick."

"It certainly helps that I narrowed it down for them." Sherlock found his brain tugged in half by both paradigms. He snapped his fingers in agitation. "What are the main attributes for Lorazepam?"

John searched his brain. "It's used as a sedative and I think an amnesic for people who have anxiety, to help calm them down. It makes them forget that they're getting a procedure done. But I'm not totally sure. I never prescribed it." He paused, frowning. "So does this mean that the night bus pusher is looking more like a dentist then?"

"Certainly not. Be sensible John." Sherlock said, looking somewhat repulsed. "You're attempting to theorize based on insufficient data. Twisting facts to suit your theories, instead of using theories to suit your facts. I wouldn't have expected /you/ to make such a capital mistake." He worried his lip with his thumb.

"Well, that's it for me then." John shut the laptop lid pointedly. His mind running on fumes and wanting to avoid another row. 

"Where are you going?"

"To bed."

"But we're not finished working." Sherlock pouted.

"Sorry, but I am. I can't think anymore and I have to work this afternoon. I need at least a little bit of a kip to keep me functioning. Unlike some people." He generously waved a hand towards the skull on the mantle. "Talk to Billy if you're so keen. You two need to do some catching up anyway. I think he's getting jealous."

The pursuit of a paycheck was one thing, but he'd had quite enough crime solving for tonight. Sherlock growled behind him in frustration, ignorant to anything he was saying.

John shook his head, moving over to the new windows, deciding that they were brighter and far clearer than the previous ones had been. The predawn light painted Baker Street in a soft glow, sparkling in the faint layer of frost that had taken over the frigid metal of parked cars, street lamps, and CCTV cameras. He held up his hand and felt absolutely no draft.

He drew closed the curtains and wandered back over to the hearth, "mind if I put this out?" But Sherlock was too lost in his head, muttering and gesticulating like a mental patient. He filled a large empty beaker from the tap and doused the flames until they sputtered and went dead. He stayed crouched for a moment, watching the simmering embers, reflecting on the past three days with an unabashed amount of amazement.

Upon his return from Afghanistan, John had never allowed himself to even DREAM that his life would be anything more than a miserable trudge through depression to death. And though he would never say it aloud, he had intended to eat his Browning the day he'd met Mike Stamford in the park. He'd even gone so far as to write up farewell note to his sister Harriet. But he'd gone for a walk on a spur of the moment idea, and his whole life changed by passing a stranger his phone. 

John never thought it possible that it would take someone like Sherlock Holmes to come in and shake up his life. Show him how it what it was like to /live/ again.

He was grateful. Eternally grateful.

He looked over the flat while standing at the bottom of the stairs. At the brocade wallpaper, the tilting pile of vinyl records, the bison skull, and the mad genius working trails into the soft hardwood floors, letting it fill him. 

"I know you're not listening so I don't have to hear you disagree, but I have to admit that it's nice to get to come back home sometimes, given what we do. I like to look around and feel like we've never left. I don't know that I've had that before. In fact, I'm pretty sure I haven't. So thank you for ...for all of this." He blushed at his own sentimentality, knowing Sherlock would have something to say if he'd been paying attention. "Anyway, I'm headed up. 'Night Sherlock."

There was no attempt at a reply.

With the door closed, he set about stripping off his jumper, toeing off his shoes, and undoing the buttons of his shirt, babying his left shoulder which pulsated with a dull ache. Not feeling as bad as it had earlier. He gave it a few experimental rotations and began taking off his undershirt. He was midway in pulling it up over his head when there was a thunderous uproar from the stairs and his door was slapped open so widely it hit the wall.

"Jesus! Sherlock! What?"

"Never left. John! You said: never left!"

"Yeah? So?"

Sherlock, for the first time since they'd moved in together, breeched the threshold to his bedroom and strode up to stand in his space. His hair was wild as if he'd been pulling on it, trying to maximize the space for his brain. His eyes that supernova brilliance of solved mysteries. He took John by the shoulders and guided him back until his knees hit the bed, putting him into a sitting position and pushing the laptop into his chest. "What are you on about? Have you solved it?"

"No, John. YOU have."

"Oh. Well that's...how?" That seemed highly unlikely; he'd gone to bed.

"Well, of course, you weren't /actually/ brilliant enough to realize that you had solved it. It took me to correlate the specifics. But you were the catalyst John. Press play."

The YouTube video showed a bank of identical ten gallon aquariums stacked up three across and four high on a metal rack, side by side. It looked like a back room containing what Sherlock had previously described as a cache of 'hospital' tanks. The camera operator took their time panning from one tank to another, showing each one's occupants for a certain length of time. It passed from small yellow fish making laps, to the next one housing a large blue fish with small flapping fins, to another with a pile of rocks and a tentacle disappearing into it, and then up to medium sized orange fish bobbing clumsily in place and so on. 

The video had no audio so Sherlock talked right over it, fidgeting where he stood like he couldn't contain his excitement. "The fish never disappeared because it never left. Do you see?" His long, pale face was lit from below by the screen, appearing almost manic. "The entire house was locked, guarded, monitored, and by all accounts impregnable. No one came or went. The perfect crime. A locked room mystery for the ages. This is a video I found on the internet for illustrative purposes."

"So? Who did it?" The video cut to to the camera having been mounted in the top corner of the room, putting the whole rack of tanks in its field of sight. With the lights turned off, the room was gray and full of shadows, the once colorful fish had turned to black meandering splotches against the wall, seeming to float in midair. 

"Not whom. But what." Sherlock said cryptically. And then it happened, there was a shapeless dark movement in the left tank on the middle rack, the only one with a pile of rocks. The camera was stationary, unable to pan, so it took a moment for the shape to make its way up to the top shelf. But when it silhouetted itself against the wall, its identity was unmistakable. 

The bulbous head and rolling, pulling tentacles outlined an octopus making its way across the top tier of tanks. Momentarily pausing at each aquarium, bundling itself and seemingly stopping to check that each lid was securely fastened.

"Octopi bear no internal nor external skeletal structure and can therefore reduce themselves to the size of their beak." Sherlock informed him. "Specimens in labs have shown a remarkable level of intelligence by opening jars and escaping from containers. Mr. Asano's particular pet seems to have utilized just such abilities." 

The octopus seemed to pull an optical illusion at that moment, suddenly half way above and half way below the last tank on the top right. The small fish inside swam down into the farthest corner in an effort to escape, but it was of no use. With a quick splay and short chase the octopus dropped through, and enveloped the trapped creature with nothing more than a slosh of water and slight shake of the shelf frame.

Having caught and eaten its meal, the octopus began to head back the way it had come. Slipping through the lid and traveling slowly back down into its own tank, disappearing like a thief in the night.

John looked up from the computer, "that was extraordinary."

"Yes. It was." Sherlock felt the same, though for entirely different reasons. "I need you to send an e-mail to Mr. Asano."

"Sherlock. I can't write in Japanese." He said, already opening their e-mail.

"Well of course you can't. I've downloaded a program that will translate it as you type. Hurry up."

"Hang on a minute. I assume it's this program then? Alright. Go ahead."

The e-mail was simple, if not a little gloating. Sherlock dictating precisely how the wording should be in order to for the subject-object-verb sentence structure to be translated correctly into the foreign courtesies. He was openly frustrated at John's henpeck style of typing and didn't fail to tell him so. 

"If you'd just slow down, you wouldn't have to repeat yourself." John balked.

"Well if you'd type faster than you could keep up."

"Then you could write your own correspondence and solve us both a lot of headache!"

Sherlock pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. "Put the routing number to my bank account at the bottom, he said he would wire the money to us as soon as he could."

"Alright. Alright. Give me a minute." John reached into his side dresser and pulled out Sherlock's checkbook lying beneath his dog tags next to his Browning. Keeping the useless book for just such occasions, since he and Sherlock used the debit card or cash preferentially. He typed in the numbers and sent off the e-mail. Hoping that the translation program had as much value as Sherlock seemed to be putting into it. When he looked back up, Sherlock was staring at him with his head tilted.

"What?" He looked down, seeing his tea colored chest dusted with blond hair, the same wrinkles of pinched skin across his curving belly he'd been looking down at for years. The coarse trail of golden hair beneath his naval, widening and disappearing into his trousers. The smooth chords of muscles making up his arms and the lobster pink starburst of his bullet wound that'd been his farewell present from Afghanistan. That, he had to really fold his neck to see.

Instantaneously, his throat squeezed shut and a ravaging heat flushed through him. Oh Jesus! He was still shirtless! 

"I didn't know you had a tattoo." Sherlock said, not fazed in the least. He leaned over to inspect John's arm even more closely. Tracing the fine black lines of the tasteful combination of the Northumberland Fusiliers' and the Royal Army Medical Corps' insignias tattoo that took up most of his right bicep with fascinated eyes. John quickly shoved the laptop against him and all but pushed him out the door. "Out Sherlock! Out. OUT!"

"There's no need to be embarrassed, John. You've seen me shirtless multiple times."

"It's not the same. Get out!" He pushed the door closed on the detective's face, falling back against it and burying his face in his hands. The shells of his ears felt like they were sunburnt and he'd feared he'd bodged up something awful tonight. Despite all the victories. He'd been very careful to never let something like this happen. He was losing his edge.

"You have a very lovely physique John."

"Sherlock. I swear to God. You'd better stop talking right this minute." He hissed. A quagmire of emotions bubbled inside him. Denial, longing, shame, obstinacy, dismissal, and just the tiniest breath of appreciation. He didn't know whether Sherlock was being true to his word or was just miming something that he thought maybe John would want to hear in his moment of panic. The man was quite daft when it came to social cues, after all.

"I'll leave you now to sort it out, whatever it is you have going on. But don't get worked up on my account." Sherlock's voice was subdued, already walking away. "Goodnight John."

John made a noise that was meant to be a 'goodnight' in return. But it got stuck as a sharp ball in his throat.

He waited for the footsteps to fall into silence before groaning audibly into his hands. "Fuck."

//


	3. The Adventures of the Wounded Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock makes a proposal and John has a very whirlwind day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> weekend updates might falter from here on out as I've had these first three chapters written for a little bit and now i'm onto partial chapter write-ups and piece togethers. though the main plot is solid and now it's all down to specifics and dialogue.
> 
> I write after my family has gone to bed and during my lunch break at work so I find it only fair to give you a head's up on what you can expect so far as update timing.
> 
> thank you. please enjoy.

// CHAPTER THREE

When John came downstairs later that morning, fully dressed in his checked shirt, Aran and jeans, Sherlock was hunched over the corner of the main dining room table. There was a littering of little white jewelry boxes piled beside him, a large box that looked to be from eBay by which they seemed to have initially come, and an oblong shadow box frame alongside a packet of gold 18 gauge pins. He'd drug a lamp in from the sitting room to help him see and it was so bright it highlighted the brown in his dark curls.

He was shuffling the tiny boxes, arranging them in a line based on their contents. He tilted his head only fractionally to acknowledge John's entrance, but didn't look up. And despite being fully dressed once again, John suspected he hadn't gone to sleep at all.

John made his way over to the cafetiere - avoiding the dangerously stretched cord - to where Sherlock's mug was already waiting expectantly. It was rote going through the steps to make Sherlock's coffee, but he decided for himself that it was a tea kind of morning. The good teacups were still in the drying rack, so he used one of those.

Last night was the first night since coming back from Afghanistan that anyone had seen him shirtless. John, himself, didn't dwell much on his own torso nowadays. He avoided looking at it in the mirror as much as he could, dressing perfunctorily for his day and went on with his life like it wasn't even there at all.

It was the only other thing on his body that he hadn't come into the world with, which was a bit ironic, considering it was very nearly the thing that had tried to take him out. He knew Sherlock had seen it, despite what he said about the tattoo. And he'd fallen asleep roving through all the different questions and statements Sherlock might be behooved to send his way come morning.

He set the coffee down at Sherlock's elbow, pre-mixed with sugar and milk, and allowed his curiosity to overtake his caution. If Sherlock hadn't blurted out something by now, either he wasn't in the mood to talk about it, or he didn't find it important enough. Regardless, John was relieved.

"What's all this about?" John asked, being mindful of the angry heat radiating off the lamp as he bent to inspect the little boxes lined up in a row. 

Sherlock switched two boxes in place and then shuffled a sixth one in between the second and third, tilting his head as if deciding something. "I'm attempting to create an entomological timeline of all the flying insects that are drawn to a human body after death with their corresponding larvae." He said simply with his brow furrowed. He swapped two more boxes then waggled his hand back and forth in the air as if he couldn't decide if he liked his decision.

"So...flies?" John said pointedly. Because that was indeed what they were.

"Not simply flies John." He insisted. "Naturally occurring indicators in the field of forensics. They can be incredibly useful in determining the time of death on found corpses based on their individual life cycles. For example," he held up an impaled fly that had a greenish blue coloration under the light, "this particular species is calliphoridae. Usually the first of their kind to arrive at a death, drawn by the smell of decomposition. If one finds an adult calliphoridae on a body, one knows that the corpse has been dead for at least twenty days.

"It is also interesting to note that it is a flesh fly whose eggs are usually laid on a body’s natural orifices: ears, eyes, nose, and genitals, or on any open wounds. Which means that if there is a large population on any one site, there is a high probability that there has been some sort of trauma to that area. So, that in turn can be helpful information if one was having to, say, make deductions from a far distance and could not get immediately to the body. As happens some times." He matched it up with its corresponding larva, a little brown thing that looked like a spiky grub and pinned them in place.

"Well, that's charming." John stood up, beckoned by the boiling kettle.

Sherlock gave an irritated wave over his collection with a large hand. "Except that some imbecile decided to mishandle the box during shipping and mixed all up my specimens." He switched a larva with a larva, which looked exactly the same as each other to John, and continued.

"Have we reached a new level of boredom I've not seen before?" John joked. "Sherlock Holmes resulting to hobbies and crafts in his downtime?"

"It's meant to be useful John. A visual cue." Sherlock replied dryly. "I can't be expected to keep everything in my mind palace."

"Mhm." John hummed noncommittally, leaning back against the counter and glancing down at his watch. He wasn't about to get started on the solar system again.

Sherlock seemed just as keen to change the subject. "What are you being so impatient for? Got a hot date?" He asked, snapping the "t" at the end for irritant's sake.

John rolled his eyes. "I'm going to Tesco with Mrs. Hudson for the shopping before I have to go to work. Do you--" but there was already a piece of paper thrust into his face and a ferociously large grin behind it. John took it and gave it a cursory glance over, immediately disregarding the obviously impossible requests. "Sherlock. I'm pretty sure they don't sell hydrochloric acid at the supermarket."

"Don't they? That's highly inconvenient." He said, piercing a flesh fly like he was threading a needle. "And can you pick me up some cheek swabs? I've run out."

They weren't on the list. "If you're asking me to filch supplies from the office, we've got the q-tips in the bathroom. Use those." John suggested.

"I can't use those. The handles aren't long enough." He replied. Pushing the pin into the foam board. He held up his eventual masterpiece at arm's length, inspecting the spacing.

John checked his wristwatch again and silently tried to figure out what extra long handles were really needed for. Deciding it was better not to ask. He wondered what was taking Mrs. Hudson so long.

"She's doing her hair. It'll be another seven to sixteen minutes. You may as well get comfortable."

"How do you know what she's doing?" John asked, because it was an almost Pavlovian response to the random facts Sherlock liked to throw out. 

He took a large sniff of the air, frowning. "I can smell her curling iron. She always sets it too hot. I don't think she can read the dial anymore."

"Oh." John said, already headed for Sherlock's chair because it faced the door and dragging a heavy text book into his lap. He found his bookmark and opened it to indulge in some light reading on the circulatory system. On the left page, there was a detailed black and white illustration of the human heart cloven wide. The artery and vein sprouting off from it alternately colored blue and red. It gave it a very simplistic beauty, in a way.

"How many serious relationships would you say you've been in John?" The question came out of nowhere, slapping John right up against the occipital lobe. It took him a minute to work it out. Sherlock's spine twisting to look at him.

"Um, what's your definition of serious?"

"Ones where you made the conscious decision to consider interminable monogamy with someone." 

He didn't have to think very hard. "Then three, I suppose. There was--"

"I don't want their names. Just the number." Sherlock informed him curtly. There was a laden pause left to fill up the room between them and then he asked his next question almost as if under duress. "Would you like to ask me?"

"Why? Have I finally beat the genius detective at something?" The words were out of John's mouth before he could stop them. He looked up at Sherlock, not able to read his features as he'd pulled a blank mask down over his emotions, which John decided was not a good sign. "Sherlock. Shit. I'm sorry. I don't know." He suddenly felt a cold strike through his belly. "It's alright. You don't have to tell me. I don't really need to know about your sex life." He turned back to his book out of sheer guilt.

"Why not?" Sherlock asked, seemingly more offended by that then the initial response.

"Because ...it's not any of my business." John very badly wanted to stop talking about this.

"Don't lie John. We both know you couldn't do it to save your life," Sherlock pointed out, "and even if you could, it's an aspect of my life that vexes you very much and has for some time now. You don't know anything about any relationship I've ever had and yet you have never attempted to ask. Why?"

Well, if he wasn't going to drop it. "So you've had a relationship then?"

"So you /are/ interested." Sherlock intoned with narrowed eyes.

They went from talking about flies alighting on corpses to this. Wonderful morning so far. 

John relented with a huff. "Look. I'm not. I just...I've never met anyone that didn't at least attempt /some sort/ of relationship with someone at some point. Casual or not. I'm not trying to pry. It's just that you've had no one over since I've met you. Not a single person. I just want you to be...y'know," he reached for the right word, twisting uncomfortably in his seat, "happy."

"Happy?" Sherlock was confused. "What are you talking about? I'm perfectly content."

"Right. So you're content with this." He waved a hand, gesturing between the two of them. "So friendship is all you need? Nothing at all would make you happier than this?" He put his hands up at Sherlock's twisting face. "No. It's fine. If that's what you want. It's just that I'm willing to, y'know, if you ever change your mind. I'm willing to ...to wingman for you if you'd like."

"Wingman?"

"For you...well...if you wanted to go out to the pub or something. To chat someone up. Guy or girl. Doesn't matter."

"Chat someone up?" The repetition of his words weren't making them sound any better.

"Oh, right. Pub's the wrong circle. Um, well I guess I could take you to a museum then...or Barts?" he winced at the very idea. "All I'm saying is that whatever it is you need. Whomever. IF you should ever...anything. I...am...here...to...support...you."

They stared at each other, eyebrows in completely opposite positions. Sherlock's furrowed tightly while John's were nearly arching off his forehead.

"Yes." Sherlock said after a long minute. "Thank you John. I'll take it into consideration."

"Right." John turned back to his book, glad that he'd said what he'd wanted to and now it was over. "Good." 

There was movement and suddenly Sherlock was by the front door, pulling on his Belstaff, abandoning his mess in the kitchen like it never existed at all. Apparently he felt it could wait.

"You're going out?" John asked in surprise and got a small hum in response.

"So it would appear."

Slightly relieved, John dismissed him and the creeping flush still crawling up his neck. "Okay. I'll see you after work then."

Sherlock seemed to take his time looping his scarf around his long, pale neck. Pulling the ends through the folded part in his customary manner and pressing his long fingers into his leather gloves. He balled them into fists at his sides, looking nervous, staring in his direction the entire time. "John?" 

Oh no. He'd been with Sherlock long enough to know that hesitation at the door was more of a theatrical event than an actual thought occurrence. The chance for a quick escape should the idea not be reciprocated well. He'd been brushing up on his deduction skills. Much to his own chagrin.

"Hm?" He didn't look up, /couldn't/ look up, focusing intently on the crosshatches depicting shadows within the cavern that was the right atrium. His throat was suddenly unbearably dry.

"Do you want to have sex?"

The tea cup paused midway to John's mouth, like the world had suddenly froze in place. Three seconds later and it would have undoubtedly been a spit take. He fought his pursed lips to form around the only word he could think to say and it came out incredibly meek. "Sorry?"

"Sex. With me." Sherlock said more slowly, making it clear all the while that he did not repeat things. "Would you like to have it?"

John's lips flexed but no words came out for a time. Feeling all five litres of his blood suddenly flood into his face. "I...But...We can't. You..." His ears felt like they would melt off his head as he finally found a simple sentence knocking about in his brain he clung to it. "But I'm not gay."

"Yes. That is something you keep saying more loudly and at greater frequency whenever someone brings it into conversation." Sherlock blinked. "Sex with a man doesn't make you gay John."

John finally had to look up at that, expecting a sly grin to be cleaving Sherlock's face from ear to ear, but there wasn't one. He was dead serious, light eyes staring an almost physical line between them. And it made the conversation all the more dangerous. "That's /exactly/ what gay is, Sherlock."

"Yes, but you've slept with women."

"Yes."

"So you're not gay."

"No." It was a point, maybe.

Sherlock sighed, apparently John was missing the point entirely. "You've slept with men on occasions prior to this, it's not as if I am suggesting something you've never engaged in before."

Too many thoughts and excuses came flooding over each other. "I never...it was...it didn't..." he cleared his throat in an attempt to steel himself. "What I did in the army...that was...IT was ...complicated."

Sherlock, of all damned things, smiled. "Then consider this arrangement elementary."

"But it's not like that between us."

Sherlock was obviously becoming irritable at having to reiterate himself time and again. "That's precisely what I'm propositioning to change!" He felt he'd made himself very clear. "Look. If you're concerned about what people will say, it will remain strictly private. And don't bother waxing on about your lack of inclinations, I've read all your tells since you moved in here. The lingering glances, the eye dilation; you've made it incredibly obvious that you fancy me John Watson, even if you like to tell yourself otherwise. Unlike you though, I can see right through your smoke screen. I'm not an idiot."

"You seem to think pretty highly of yourself." John said pointedly, teacup still held aloft. Of course, it was all true. But he wasn't going to tell him that. "You told me you were married to your work."

"It was an initial reaction to bad timing and I didn't say I wanted to marry you." Sherlock huffed. "I said sex."

A thousand different reasons as to why this was abseiling him this morning rocketed through his head, but he found his deeply ingrained pocket of British dignity and put his teacup back in its saucer. The porcelain clink being very cathartic.

"Sherlock?" He said evenly, needing to know, licking his lips. "Why are you asking me this?"

"Is there a problem?"

"No. Well...no. And yes." John was confusing himself. "I mean, why me? Is it...convenience? I just- why not go find someone more your age? Or your ...type? Whatever that is." Well that was dreadful.

"You are my type." He tilted his head like a puppy that didn't know what the question it'd just been asked had actually meant. "I'm choosing you because /you/ are what I want."

John felt himself suddenly warring between flattery and dismissal, and it came out as an incredulous chuckle, "you fancy old broken blokes in jumpers?" 

The words stung as he said them, but apparently hurt Sherlock more, because he hardened himself in the doorway, nearly growing to fill it. 

His eyes narrowed to piercing slits. "I have no interest in discussing your unconscionable fashion choices as of this moment because you're pressed for time, but I would like to contradict every other adjective wrong with that statement."

"Um--" John began, but Sherlock talked right over him.

"At thirty-six, it would be egregiously premature for you to consider yourself old as you've not yet even reached middle age. By my approximation, you've still a good forty years of mobility left. Your previous and current lifestyle have kept you physically fit, so you're unlikely to fall ill. Injured, perhaps, but that's nothing more than problematic. We can certainly deal with that when it happens. Helps that you're a doctor, surely. But that's not truly your reason for hesitation, is it?

"No, it's something else. That scar on your shoulder. Seems like a good place as any to start: 

"Based on the circumference of the initial entry point, I would say that it was caused by a .54 caliber bullet. If you take that and correlate it with where you were and what you were doing at the time, it's easy to deduce that it was fired from a Mosin-Nagant at long range, possibly even a Dragoon if you wanted to be particular. A relic, no doubt, left over from when the Russians invaded Afghanistan as they stopped manufacturing those particular rifles in the 1960s. 

"It had been intended as a kill shot, but the shooter either miscalculated the rifle's firing distance or failed to factor in windspeed or some other variant and missed. So, it was most likely a budding sniper still trying to learn the ropes, taking calculated pot shots at British soldiers. Simple.

"The trajectory of the wound from its entrance at your front to its higher exit at the back would suggest that it was fired from a low angle anteriorly. Don't look so surprised John, there's a mirror on your bureau, it was an easy enough deduction. So most likely the sniper was lying on his belly when he fired, possibly the first shot he fired as it's unlikely that you would have been standing in full view under live fire. So he would have been obscured, intending for it to be an ambush.

"Taking that information plus a cursory understanding of anatomy, we can further extrapolate that the bullet nicked your subclavian artery. Perforation to an artery is always bad news, so someone would have had to have been right there with you exactly when it happened. Somebody saved you."

There it was. The moment in John's life that defined before an after; when time had whittled down to the meeting of man and bullet and divided his life into two epochs. The big bang where fate and circumstance had coalesced to set him on the path towards this ridiculous man. 

This gorgeous, awful ridiculous man.

John blinked at him, his molars aching in his clenching jaw. His breath an audible hiss in and out through his nostrils, his thin lips pressed tight. He was gripping the tea cup so hard there was a possibility it would crumble in his hands, but it didn't shake. 

"You would have been air lifted initially to Camp Bastion where you would have had to be stabilized before risking travel again and then transferred to Selly Oak Hospital in Burmingham for further recovery, as is the typical procedure for wounded soldiers. From there you would have been sent to Headly Court for rehabilitation, but something happened to you before you got there, something delayed your transfer, you didn't make it to Headly for a long while. But what was it?

"Interested to know how I know?" He pointed to the offending shoulder. "The red discoloration that usually accompanies the hypertrophic keloid scarring with an injury of that particular violence has long since faded. Applying the median time principals for a wound like that with its rate of matrix healing, it can take anywhere from three weeks to almost a year to heal. In your case, as you were honorably discharged back in May, I believe you were postponed in hospital for somewhere close to ...three months longer than expected. But why? Why? What could it have been? Wait, wait. Don't tell me..."

He touched his temples, willing forth the answer. "Oh! Yes. Obvious! You contracted a nosocomial infection of some sort. It would make perfect sense!" He clapped his hands together like a sorcerer summoning a spell. "It weakened you, so much so that you still consider yourself under its grasp. So that's it then, isn't it?"

Sherlock was lost in his own deduction, chasing threads and mending snags to bring the whole terrible tapestry back together. Bringing to light what had remained for a long while a very shrouded day. And he was completely oblivious to the way it was tearing John apart.

"You admitted to me yourself at dinner that you hadn't slept with Sarah yet and at the time I didn't see, but now NOW it's all so clear! It's not as if you weren't given ample opportunity to be invited to her flat; I could tell from her cheek capillaries and continual body proximity to you that she would have been willing to bed you the very night of the Chinese circus. Well, of course, if it hadn't turned out the way it did...

"Come to think of it, you were rather boisterous about your intentions that night. Perhaps even overcompensating in the hopes that your nerve would win out against your hesitance. /In fact/, you've been casually forthcoming to any woman who falls into your categorization of attractiveness; curvy, athletic build, similar eye-height, A to B cup breast size relative to figure. You even went so far as to hit on Mycroft's personal assistant. So it's certainly not a question of timidity."

His voice rolled like thunder now. "Putting aside the fact that you would have to explain the cause of your scar, in effect exposing your life choices to criticism, the only remaining explanation is that it is simply because you don't know if you possess the necessary stamina to fulfill the needs and desires of a lover. You're operating under the false assumption that women will consider you to be an upstanding gentleman by holding back, when in reality you have shamed yourself into thinking that any offering but the absolute best during your first consummation would be considered a failure. 

"It's your /pride/ that's holding you back, isn't it? Your ridiculous, unfathomable pride."

Sherlock took a step towards John at this, sliding back into eyes that were so ignited, they practically gave off their own luminescence. "So then why would you even consider denying yourself your most base, biological urge to my proposal when I will hold no prejudice against you? When I am completely aware of what you have endured and will not subject you to derision because of it? I'm trying to offer to you exactly what it is that /you/ need to remain happy.

"The answer should be obvious John. Just say yes."

It was then, at the end of it all, as he felt his paradigm shift, that John's fingers finally slipped loose and Figure A. (page thirty-five) of the bifurcated human heart suffered pericardial effusion at the hands of milk and black tea.

John didn't know what to say, what to do, he sat frozen in place, warm tea soaking his chest, staring into those kaleidescope eyes. 

A thought came to him, slowly, as if in an undercurrent to the barrage. As if it had been subtly whispered; that Sherlock was offering himself, for what John suspected to be willingly for the first time in his life, to another human being.  
He contemplated the tragedy of it, the sudden prodigy of the very concept. How utterly amazing and totally terrifying it could be. How unthinkable and natural and very truly completely dangerous...but was it true? Had that really just become a possibili--?

"Hoo hoo." Mrs. Hudson announced herself at the top of the stairs like an owl in the customary way of her perfect timing. Her manners as sharp and sweet as a sugar crystal. "Good morning Sherlock, how are you today?"

She only gave a moment's pause to the pregnant silence filling the flat, looking back and forth between the men before she reached out and gave Sherlock's arm an affectionate squeeze. "It appears I've interrupted something. I'm very sorry, but we really must be going. John dear, are you ready? Oh my! You've spilled your tea."

She was dressed in an ivory blouse with silver buttons, a hounds tooth skirt that went below her knees, and black stockings. Buried beneath a large, long poofy coat, with her purse clutched in gloved hands and small hat pinned to her head, stuck with a long thin feather. He hair was fussed and curled around a tastefully made-up face with pink lipstick. She didn't make it out of the flat much, so when she did it was an event.

"You won't be needing your purse, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock spoke without tearing away from John's gaze, "John and I will buy the shopping today. We've just solved a case." He pulled the small clutch from her hands and threw it onto the chair by the door.

The motion caused John to finally release the air that he'd been holding in his chest. His jaw working open and shut like a landed fish. 

"That's wonderful! How very kind of you." Mrs. Hudson exclaimed.

Sherlock finally turned away from John then, hesitating as if it were almost a physical separation between the two of them. Making to walk out the door. Mrs. Hudson flitted aside at the swirling coat. "If that's to be your answer John, I understand. I am amenable to--"

"No!" John regained himself a little too loudly, holding Sherlock at the threshold. It made Mrs. Hudson jump and involuntarily reach for her hip. 

John found his calm voice hiding deep within his chest. "No, no. I didn't say 'no'. I just need...to think about it. Alright? Just let me ...get a process on it."

"As you wish." Sherlock's cheek crutched up into a tight smile and he winked. "I'll have a transcription of my blood work drawn up for you, as I know that would be an obvious concern of yours, though you can take it on my word that I am clean. There's no need to prepare your own, however, as I have taken the liberty to monitor your current status since you moved in." He turned back and gave Mrs. Hudson the sort of chaste kiss on the cheek he reserved for the times when people were falling dead in the street. Before his heels tapped loudly down the stairs and the front door clicked with finality in his wake.

Sherlock had come. He had seen. He had conquered.

"He's in a bit of a mood, isn't he?" She asked confusedly, turning back to John. "Let me just get a towel for that dear." She tutted at the mess in the kitchen and returned like a finicky aunt, blotting at John's chest while he still stared wide-eyed at the empty doorframe. "This will have to come off love. It's too chilly out there to be wet. You go and change and then we'll be off."

But then John's phone trilled in his pocket and he dug it out. It was from Sherlock. He tilted it to let Mrs. Hudson read it too.

'There's a birthday present on the table for you, I felt it was a good representation. Have a nice day. - SH'

John rose numbly, Mrs. Hudson following, both finding the intended box sitting amongst the rest of the boxes, the flies and the larvae, camouflaged in the melee. It was medium in size and wrapped in butcher paper. There was a nonsense formula scribbled on it for something in Sherlock's distinctive scrawl.

"Oh, that's so nice of him. I didn't know it was you birthday. You should have told me! I'd have baked you something."

"It's not." The voice that came from himself was small and slightly foreign. "It's not my birthday." John inspected the box carefully before sliding his fingers under the tape and popping it loose. His official birthday was two months away still. He opened it carefully and peered inside.

"Ooo! What is it?" Mrs. Hudson asked excitedly, her hands clasped before her. Her little feather quaking on her hat.

He reached inside and pulled it out.

"Oh...dear?" Ms. Hudson exclaimed as John set it down before them, utterly confused.

Sherlock Holmes had given him a rock.

//

At Tesco, John was deemed trolley pusher, as he often lost his focus, and Mrs. Hudson floated before him, muttering to herself, asking questions he occasionally did not answer, and making decisions on food for the both of them. Currently, they were puttering around in the baking aisle.

"Maybe it's a metaphor? For what you mean to him." Mrs. Hudson suggested while making a decision between a bag of semi sweet and a bag of milk chocolate chips. Eventually she decided on both. They'd studied the rock only briefly before leaving, not knowing what to make out of it. It was about the size of a potato and completely unremarkable.

"Maybe." John muttered.

"It's nice to see him acting more friendly towards people again." She went on. "I think you've done a lot of good since you came to live with us. Could you pick me up the large bag of sugar dear? No, sorry, that one. It's there on the bottom shelf. I always seem to run out right in the middle of a recipe. That's a love, thank you. 

"And it's nice to see your leg all better. I worried about your cane and those stairs when you first came to see about the flat. It seems he's done some good for you as well." She beamed at him, coaxing the trolley further down the aisle towards the spices.

"He has." John admitted, walking slowly. "I think. I mean, I know that he's definitely changed my life."

"I know!" Her face went bright with love. "He does that, doesn't he? I like to think of him as a tropical storm, like the ones we use to have in Florida. He comes in and just blows everything about and then is off again. And whatever he leaves behind, of course it's messy and it's loud and it can be rather terrible, but there's always sunshine afterwards."

She put a jar of vanilla beans into the trolley with a snort. "Listen to me, talking in silly metaphors. That Sherlock is a good boy, no matter how much he wants people to think otherwise. He's a bit odd, but that's what makes him lovely."

"What was he like before I moved in?" They turned the corner into the cereal aisle and walked all the way down it, not needing anything particularly.

"Oh. Well, he was usually very quiet except for the occasional explosions. And he was always leaving at strange hours in the night and sleeping in too late. Sometime I don't think he slept at all. I guess you could compare him to a teenager with all his bad habits. He's awful at looking after himself, as I'm sure you know. Poor thing."

"What about drugs?" John found the question coming out before he'd thought about it. "Was he using when..."

Mrs. Hudson smiled with some trepidation in her eyes, sighing. "Oh yes. He's only recently gotten off them. A couple of months before you two met up. That's why he's so thin, I think." She put a veiny hand over John's, giving it a squeeze with her eyes beginning to water. "You have to keep him right, John. I know he's not your responsibility, but I love Sherlock very much and if anyone can get through to him, I think it will be you. Just the /idea/ that he could possibly go back to those awful, awful things again...oh my, it would just break my heart."

"I'll certainly do everything I can." He assured her, putting his hand over the top of hers and giving it a pat. She smiled wetly in appreciation.

They turned another aisle and came into the toiletries, having John slide multiple packs of paper towels into the bottom of the trolley. "It's good that you're a doctor dear. You can watch over him and keep him healthy. He trusts you. And I don't think I've ever seen him trust anyone before. Trust is important.

"Take my Frank, for example." Mrs. Hudson stopped in front of the curling irons, looking back and forth at the different brands before picking out one, John noticed, with large painted dials. "There was never any trust between us. There was at first, but it later turned out that I was just being naive. I mean, I had NO idea he was fighting all the other drug dealers in our area for turf. And OH! How surprised I was to find out that he was murdering them and feeding their bodies to the alligators!"

She had them stop the trolley in the middle of the aisle, giggling. "Or was it crocodiles? I can never remember what those silly things were called. Well, anyway, I'll leave you to it. You come find me by the magazines when you're finished dear. I know I walked into something earlier and I think it's probably a good idea for you two to make up. Alright, love? I'll just be right over here."

John watched her go, her little feather flapping on her hat. Their trolley was sufficiently full now, with enough food to last between the two of them - and occasionally the third - for a good two and a half weeks. He was thoroughly puzzled at her departure, until his eyes caught what they'd stopped in front of. 

Condom brands of all varying sizes, reasons, and lubrications were hanging before him. All touting their wares and benefits. He felt his cheeks and ears flush red immediately.

"Damnit." He couldn't decide because he didn't really know. So he reached out and snagged a box of regular size and a box of larger sized condoms and a bottle of lubricant, shoving them discreetly under the bread. He picked up his pace and made his way to the magazines for Mrs. Hudson and then on to the checkout. Paying for it all, like Sherlock had suggested. And they took a cab back to Baker Street with their groceries.

John made a mental note to stop by the building supply store for the hydrochloric acid Sherlock had wanted after he got off work. Justifying it as a nice surprise.

// 

It was around eight o'clock by the time John got back to the flat, sans hydrochloric acid, as all the shops were closed. But he had taken a few swabs from the office and wrapped them in a rubber glove for his pocket. He'd been held up at work two hours later than expected, reassuring worried mothers that their sniffling children only had the influenza that was beginning to go around and not some terrifying thing they'd found on Google. 

He'd given himself a jab of this year's vaccine to be safe and had finally headed home.

He let out a long suffering breath as he threw down his keys and realized that the table had been cleared. Sherlock had apparently been back to the flat in John's absence and finished up his fly project in the shadow box. He found it hanging up beneath the glazed bison skull in the sitting room. 

John studied it for a while, trying to make sense of it, then went about making himself dinner. Something simple with pasta, butter, and herbs and portioned it to have enough leftovers for when Sherlock returned. He decided to tidy up a bit, burying the biohazard bag containing gone off brain at the bottom of the rubbish sack and taking it down to the bins.

As he came back around, there was a black car idling at the curb. His jaw immediately clenched, his hands balling up into fists as the door opened. A slithering voice came out with the rolling heat. "Always a pleasure to see you, Dr. Watson. Do get in, it is a rather chilly night tonight."

"Mycroft." John said darkly, glancing up at the glowing windows of 221B before sliding into the opposite seat.

Mycroft Holmes was sitting stiffly in a glorious three piece suit, his tie pin shining in the track lighting all along the car's posh interior. John felt the car silently amble back onto the road and reached for the door handle, causing Mycroft to hold up a manicured hand and smile the smile of a government kingpin. "Nothing untoward, I assure you. I'd simply just like to go for a drive and have a little chat along the way. I'll bring you back before Sherlock returns."

"What do you want?" John's voice was as dark as pitch. Rage crawling up inside him.

"Perhaps I should first ask you what it is that /you/ want? As you seem to have something pressing upon your mind." He sat primly, looking down his pointed nose with his hands resting on the handle of his umbrella. It wouldn't surprise John at all if there were a sword hidden in it. "There is of course. Make no mistake." Mycroft said in his smugly telepathic fashion.

John ignored that warily. "Why haven't you caught Moriarty? You're suppose to control everything."

"Yes." A perfectly tweezed eyebrow raised minutely. "I did hear about you three making your acquaintances at the pool some nights ago. Terrible business that. I don't know what fantasies my brother has been inclined to regale you with, but, as I've said before, I only occupy a minor position in the British government. Surely you can't expect /me/ to keep tabs on every criminal in London at all times, can you? "

John wasn't falling for his nonchalance. "No. What you can do is find him, catch him, and stick him in a hole where no one will ever think to look for him again. You /do/ have THAT kind of power, yeah?"

Mycroft seemed to fight a smile in his lips at that. "Those kinds of laws are only afforded to the Americans, Dr. Watson. However much I wish I could simply snap my fingers and have Moriarty wiped from existence, it's simply not doable."

John sat back, realizing something. "You won't. That's what it is, isn't it? You won't touch him because he's more valuable to you out in the world causing trouble." He sneered, absolutely disgusted, folding his arms across his chest. He made note of the car's continual right turns, figuring that it was circling the block. His blood was boiling. "How do you sleep at night? Knowing you could do something about it and instead doing nothing at all? Hm?"

"I find that rest comes quite easily actually. How about you? Still having your nightmares?" Mycroft said complacently, the slight tilt of his head taking his whole demeanor from placid to shrewd in the blink of an eye. "As refreshing as your concern is for Queen and Country, I'm afraid that the topic of this conversation has come to an end. If you would be so kind as to put your pettiness aside for a moment we can move onto the real reason for my visit, Dr. Watson."

John wanted to continue, but he knew it would make no difference. He conceded by sniffing loudly in aggravation and breaking eye contact first, looking out the tinted window. Mycroft relished his small victory. "I'm here to drop off these." He thrust a thick manila folder towards John, gauging his reaction to them in the calculating Holmes' way.

"What are these?" John unsheathed them partially, furrowing his eyebrows before pushing them back in. "I don't understand." It was obvious to both of them why these papers had been drawn up, but John didn't want to give him any more ammunition than he clearly already had.

"Sherlock inquired earlier tonight about gathering together his medical records. He considers them necessary to give to you." He let his umbrella tilt against the inside of his knee and brought his hands up in the similar pious style Sherlock took when he was roaming through his mind palace. The only difference was that when Mycroft did it, it looked unholy. "So I thought I'd drop them off personally."

"You thought you'd stick your nose into your brother's business because somehow you think it's /your/ business too? Isn't that what you mean?" John growled. 

Mycroft leaned back into his seat, relenting against John's ire. "Who my brother chooses to be with is of importance to me, of course. It is well within my right to know when he is being taken advantage of."

"You think I'm taking advantage of him?"

"I believe he's allowing you to do so, yes." Mycroft said and that stopped John's thoughts in their tracks momentarily. Mycroft continued. "When you first met him, my brother had been engaging in, shall we say, suicidal proclivities. He did not sleep and rarely ate, conscientiously choosing to put himself in harm's way whenever possible. You are aware now that his pension for this behavior has only subsided since your moving in together, but it has not stopped entirely."

John nodded.

"Sherlock believes himself to be indestructible and can do so because he has kept himself alone for most of his life. Not allowed anything or anyone to get close to him in any capacity. And yet, he has allowed /you/ that coveted position. Why? What's so special about an invalided army doctor?"

The statement turning in a way he hadn't anticipated and he had the vague notion that much more was going on in Mycroft's brain and John was only required for a minutiae of it. "I've no idea." John stated honestly. "What makes me so special?"

Mycroft studied him with a thin lipped bearing, still Holmesian unreadable. "I don't know." He eventually replied, but whether it was meant as an insult or a conundrum, John didn't know. Mycroft went on. "Although, it might interest you to know that he did not even ask about your own medical records. I daresay he thinks you'll simply tell him anything important."

"You, of course, looked into them." John remembered vividly the way Mycroft had produced his /confidential/ therapy session notes at their first meeting as easily as if they'd been public domain.

Mycroft smiled dangerously in agreement. "Lucky for you, I see nothing glaring which should preclude you from pursuing your mutual interests. I have made the documents available to Sherlock, of course, should he wish to confirm any suspicions. I hope that is not an inconvenience."

If John hadn't known any better, he'd swear that Mycroft was jealous. "Why are you telling me any of this? Are you trying to put me off?"

Mycroft slithered through an answer in his usual way. "My brother has denied himself countless things in order to survive in this world, Dr. Watson. But the few things he has chosen to indulge in, he allows to utterly consume him. The violin, his various chemical dependencies, his work. There is no such thing as halfway for him. I feel it pertinent that you should understand this.

"You risk becoming another subject in that very short list, /John/." 

He let the levity of it settle before adding, "that being said, I took the liberty to include the WHOLE of his medical history in that folder, should you wish to illuminate yourself; from his psychiatric evaluations as a child, to the discharge papers from his multiple times in rehabilitation, to his current blood work taken as recently as six months ago. I trust that you will provide a properly thorough and unbiased medical evaluation when making your decision about how best to deal with how to proceed on such ...delicate matters."

"Your brother is an adult, Mycroft. Even if you've lost the ability to see it. Let me out." John scowled, not able to stand another minute in the slowly rotating car. "Sherlock's fully capable of making decisions for himself and he doesn't need your constant supervision to get on in the world."

"Doesn't he?" Mycroft proffered with an air of omnipotence. He tapped on the tinted partition that separated them from the driver with his umbrella tip and the car stopped. Mycroft opened the door to the frigid night, intending for John to walk back home from wherever they had pulled over, belaying small courtesies. "Good night Dr. Watson. Do give Sherlock my warmest regards."

//

John slapped the folder down on the sitting room desk with a sigh, rubbing his hands across his face before tunneling them through his short, coarse hair. The act made it stick up in starburst spikes, but he took no notice. Mycroft's visit had both angered him and intrigued him.

He picked up the mysterious rock and weighed it in his hand, trying to make sense of it all. He felt overwhelmed. All these things and people crowding in around him like he had all the answers to questions he hadn't even known existed. When all the while he just wanted answers from them.

John was a man of facts and figures, as much as Sherlock was. Able to line things up in a row and tackle them one by one. His military medical training had taught him the delicate, merciless art of triage and he decided to take the simplest task at hand and apply himself to it, with whatever energy he had left. Give himself a break and tackle something inherently simple.

First things first, he would balance their books.

He sat down with the laptop at the sitting room table and logged onto Sherlock's bank account - the one they shared now since Sherlock hadn't even been aware that John had made an account online for him, and matched up their jar of receipts with the corresponding withdrawals. As he got to the most recent, he frowned.

This morning, Mr. Asano had wired five thousand pounds into their account. He saw the shopping amount taken out at thirteen fifty-two, just as expected. But then...

At seventeen twenty-three in the afternoon, it showed a withdrawal of two thousand pounds that had to have been made by Sherlock while John had been out at work. He blinked at the screen for a moment, then shifted, his gaze falling onto the folder on the table absently.

Two thousand pounds? What on earth could Sherlock need that much money for? If it was to buy something more for his wardrobe, John figured he would have just used the credit card, told John about it, as he always did, and John would have immediately transferred the money from the checking to pay for it. That was their routine. 

John was incredibly staunch in his spending habits. He took vigilant care of their finances. Though he never confronted Sherlock about dubious purchases, only adjusted for them and moved on. It was his money that he'd earned doing cases, after all.

But this was strange. Two thousand...cash? Why?

John found himself staring at the folder again. Had it something to do with what Sherlock had proposed only hours before? Offering himself to John. It was all so vague and nebulous...Why? What could he have needed?

John laid a hand gently on the folder, unspun the string from the closure, and fingered the flap open. It would be so easy to know, to learn about all the things that had vexed him regarding the enigma that was Sherlock. His whole history was waiting in that folder...

John licked his lips. And then respun the string back on, making his final decision. "No," he spoke aloud to the empty flat. "If Sherlock wants me to know. He'll just have to tell me himself."

"Tell you what?" 

John jumped, startled from his reverie by Sherlock's sudden appearance. Sherlock looked pekid where he stood, wilting in the doorway. John played off his surprise and took his hand carefully off the diabolical folder. "Oh hey. You alright?"

"Mhm. Just fine. Have you been up to your room yet?" Sherlock's eyes, of course, fell briefly onto the folder, but said nothing about it.

"Noo...why?" 

"S'nothing." Sherlock blinked slowly, nodding, then shuffled over to couch and dumped himself upon it. He listed over to the side, his head landing on the armrest with a clutched cry in his throat. 

John was immediately in front of him, sitting down on the coffee table, not fooled for an instant. He reached out with no hesitation and undid the buttons of Sherlock's Belstaff. "What's wrong with you? Are you hurt? Where are you hurt?" He ignored the weakly batting hands and loosened Sherlock's scarf. Then he felt his blood begin to simmer in his veins again, exhaustion and worry knocking about through his head. It was obvious Sherlock'd gone out by himself AGAIN and gotten hurt. The son of a bitch.

John didn't need this right now. He needed sleep. He need a goddamn break to sit and think and figure it all out.

But it wasn't going to happen like that. Like always. 

He coaxed Sherlock up into a sitting position with a hiss from the pale detective. There was blood on the armrest and John set his jaw and swept back the hair from the left side of his face. "Jesus Christ Sherlock!" He bellowed at the sight of it. "What the fuck happened?"

Sherlock's ear was covered in blood, his hair saturated in thick wet clumps around it. From his cursory inspection, it looked as though the whole top quarter of his ear was missing. Entirely gone! There was a thick trail of blood down his neck, soaking into his blue muffler. John acted quickly and whipped the scarf off from around his throat, bundling it up and having Sherlock press it against the side of his head as temporary compression.

John bolted into the kitchen, flinging open the cupboard under the sink and pulling out his one of many first aid kits he had stored around the flat. When he came back, Sherlock was fighting his body in an effort to get it not to sway. "It's not that bad." He was slurring. "Head wounds always bleed more. They tend to look worse than they are."

"Don't tell me what a bloody head wound looks like!" John half shouted. "Your goddamned ear's off!"

"Is it?" Sherlock pressed two fingertips from his other hand into the mess, looking down at his blood and rubbing it with his thumb. "Oh." He grimaced as John made him take the compression off. Trying to assess the damage.

"This fucking light isn't good enough. I can't see. Can you make it to the bathroom?" John moved around so that he was able to pull Sherlock's arm over his shoulder.

"Of course I can. I made it up the stairs didn't I? Ah!" His feet bumbled on the carpet, nearly pitched them both on the threshold to the kitchen, before John finally sat him down on the closed toilet seat. He put his kit across the sink and began unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt, counting the bloodied silk as a loss.

"This is not how I imagined this happening for our first time," Sherlock said to the doctor's fastidious hands, having the gall to smirk. "Though I suppose it would suit us."

"Shut up Sherlock." John hissed, preoccupied with the gore in front of him. He made Sherlock bend his neck until it rested against his left shoulder, sweeping back the sticky hair to get a proper look. The auricula was cleanly severed laterally right across the top of it, as if it had been sliced off by something sharp. Whatever it was, had even managed to graze his scalp along the same line.

"Fire axe." Sherlock said calmly.

John felt fury bloom suddenly through him, his voice as steady as his stilled hand. "What?"

"It was a fire axe John. The weapon that did the damage." Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut as John began spraying cleaning solution onto the wound site, shielding it with his hand to keep it from getting in Sherlock's face. It was cold all down the side of his head, but burned on his exposed cartilage. "I tried to find it, but someone had pulled the fire alarm by then and everyone was in a panic. That's the epitome of stupidity, isn't it? People in a panic." Sherlock's voice pulled high with pain and John bit back a wholly different answer.

Sherlock kept trying to catch John's eye, but the doctor refused to look at him. "Aren't you going to ask me where I was?"

"I don't care." John grit through his teeth.

Sherlock either ignored him, or didn't hear. "I was at a poker game."

"Sorry? What?" It sounded absurd and John stopped completely from unrolling the stripping of gauze to the length he wanted, then shook his head vigorously. "You know what, I don't even want to fucking know. Don't tell me. I DON'T care." He pressed the gauze a little too firmly to Sherlock's head and wound the bandaging around the circumference of his skull a few times before knotting it on the opposite side. 

"Since you're not going to ask, I should tell you that I won. Well, the hand that we actually finished. Not cash, but..."

John finally met his eyes then, looking him straight through. "If you want anything to EVER happen between us EVER you will shut the fuck up right now Sherlock Holmes!" John warned, absolutely ready to rip the sink off the wall if anything more were to come to light.

Sherlock had the decency to shut up then. Looking haggard and childish in the great swath of gauze wrapped around his forehead. His dark hair was smashed in wild ways around it, giving him the appearance of a worn out pirate. His thin chest and ribs flexed minutely in the crisp white lightbulbs of the vanity. His pale skin even paler than it ever had seemed.

John shoved a single ibuprofin and a glass at Sherlock forcefully, gathering up his supplies with a lot of noise and throwing it onto the table on his way out. "Take that. I'm going to bed. Wake me up if you go into shock."

He tromped up the stairs, shivering with adrenaline. It was going to take a good long while for him to come back down from this, he wasn't going to count on getting to sleep any time soon.

"John?"

"Get some goddamn rest Sherlock! We'll deal with it in the morning." John called back down, not stopping.

"John please. There's something I should--"

"It can wait 'til morning!"

"No it can't."

"Piss off!" John smashed open his bedroom door, and what he had thought to be his night's crescendo suddenly reached another exsacerbating peak:

There was a furious, shrilling honk of surprise and a white ball of violence came hurtling off his bed towards him. The goose was large and startling. Hissing as it came at him, wings held aloft and flapping wildly. It's long neck poised to strike like a cobra. John had half a mind to boot it across the room.

"Don't hurt it! It's for a case!" John just barely heard Sherlock from the bottom of the stairs and physically roaring, managed to pull the door shut just as it cam upon him.

"What the fuck! What the bloody goddamn fuck have you done?!" John came barrelling down the stairs, meeting all six feet of the wounded detective at the bottom. He got up right into his face, stabbing an accusatory finger in proximity to his eye. Sherlock merely held up his hands in protest.

"John, please. Just let me explain."

"Explain? Explain!" John exploded. "Explain why there's a fucking GOOSE in my FUCKING ROOM!" He fake laughed, a menacing noise that was high and tight. "Oh yeah. This ought to be a fucking riot! Putting one over on me, is that it?"

"Of course not, don't be an idiot." He backtracked quickly after those words, even taking a step back before John took a swing. "I didn't have anywhere else to put it."

"What about in /your/ bedroom?" John's voice dropped into a furious whisper, his tongue pressing down against his bottom lip.

"Certainly not. Geese are notorious for their bad defecation habits." He challenged John's dark eyes evenly. "Think logically, I can't have an animal soiling two hundred pound sheets John; your bedding is far less expensive to replace. You're in need of new ones anyway. I thought you would applaud my frugality."

John sniffed, that poignant sound that meant he was at the end of his rope. That everything inside him was just about to snap. That he was about to kill a man. "Right." Was all he whispered before turning into the kitchen and straight down the hall.

"But that's my room." Sherlock said, not quit understanding. Left standing crooked and shirtless in the man's furious wake.

"NOT ANYMORE!" And with that, John slammed the door behind him.

//


	4. The Adventures of the Electrified Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's raining corpses and John should have expected it.

John launched himself up on his elbows at the sound of his name, momentarily disoriented. The room was strange, the smells were familiar but misplaced. The bed was facing the wrong way and too large and too soft and...oh.

He dropped himself back down. "Go away." He mumbled into the drool spot on the pillow, before flipping the entire thing over and turning his back pointedly to the crouching detective.

"I would, but it's important." Sherlock said softly. His voice a deep rumble with trace amounts of hesitation.

John pinched his eyes shut as everything came flooding into his mind, filling him up with so many mixed emotions that he wanted to react physically. But instead he lay there, counting to ten. 

"There's been a body. Lestrade's asked for us."

John sat up, letting the down covers fall back. He looked at his watch, then to the detective in turn, unable to open more than one eye at a time. 

Sherlock was hunkered by the side nearest the door, apparently having snuck in at some point and grabbed a new wardrobe from his closet, because he was looking aggravatingly impeccable for four thirty in the morning. For as gangly as he seemed, Sherlock moved with incredible silence.

The gauze from last night that had been wrapped around his head was gone, his mop of dark curls lying perfectly on his head like there was no injury to speak of at all. Sherlock shifted on his ankles under his scrutiny, "I minimized the bandaging to a more appropriate size. I can't go around London looking like a mummy, John. I have a reputation to keep." His light eyes were pleading. It wasn't what he wanted to discuss right now. "Will you come with me?"

John wanted to say 'no' out of spite, to punish him. But this wasn't about what was going on between him and Sherlock. John would be punishing himself just as much as he was punishing him. So instead he said as flintily as he could manage: "just give me a sodding minute, alright? Out."

Moving slowly, Sherlock let himself out of the door and shut it softly behind him. John began to pull himself back into the day's previous clothes, setting his teeth against the fact that he had no idea how to go about procuring more, when there was a knock at the door.

"Um, John." A hand came through the slight opening, laden with folded jeans, socks, an undershirt, pants, and his red button up shirt. Sherlock had apparently figured it all out for him, somehow made it past the goose, and gathered some clothes. They were lowered to the floor when they weren't immediately taken. Then the door shut again and John was left pressing the heel of his palm into his eye, lost in a sea of bewilderment.

When he emerged from the bathroom, flexing his hand tightly and having to convince himself to loosen his jaw, he found Sherlock sitting on the back of the top of his chair, posing like a monk. His Belstaff was laid beside him in easy reach and his wingtips were sinking into the soft seat like quicksand. His long chin was balanced precariously on his thumb tips, watching John as he went about his morning routine in the kitchen, slamming things a little louder than necessary, of course. Because he had every right.

John ate his breakfast slowly, deliberately, ready to snap at any indication of being rushed. But Sherlock sat silently and occupied himself with counting the number of bites John took before swallowing and the approximate volume of coffee necessary in each sip to wet his palate. John ignored him completely, like he was a ghost, scowling at the wall the whole time. And Sherlock's ear twinged something awful.

John washed up at a slow pace as well, towel drying and putting the dishes away, and then finally, finally, /finally/ shrugged into his coat and muffler, hissing with a grimace at his shoulder. It was bloody awful today. "Come on then." He muttered halfway down the first turn of steps and Sherlock sprang from the chair like a frog in a dynamite pond to follow.

The cab ride, for most of the way, was ominously silent. 

John reached over and slapped a gloved hand down on Sherlock's bouncing knee, stilling it, before drawing it away. His face turned towards the window. Sherlock took it as the game of chess it was, making his own move to counter.

"I've upset you." He said quietly.

John's mouth opened wide, angry, exasperated, ready to start in on him, his eyes boggling in his head. Of ALL the goddamned things to say! He even turned halfway away from the window only to turn back, resorting to an infuriated sniff, disengaging. Having a row in the back of a taxi would do him no good. "Always knew you were a proper genius." He said coldly. His voice a dark rattle in his throat.

These next words didn't come as easily as Sherlock would have thought. "I will make it up to you John."

John finally turned fully at that, his eyes still boiling in their sockets. But Sherlock could feel the miniscule way he decompressed a bit, and knew he'd already won. 

John shifted in his seat, tugging roughly at his coat, folding his arms across his chest. "Yeah, well. You're usually good about getting what you want." 

He turned back to the window and nothing more was said.

//

The moment they entered St. Bartholomew's Hospital, they became 'Sherlock & Watson: Consulting Detective and Doctor' and no one was any the wiser. John was glad that they had become easy enough roles to slip into.

Lestrade greeted them as the elevator doors opened to the basement, looking pensive. He fell into step as they headed for the far end, catching them up on the particulars. Three sets of shoes snapped rhythmically down the large, empty corridor. 

"So this vic we're about to see was found at Russell Square tube station just around two forty this morning by a maintenance worker. He was dead when they found him." The unmistakable smell of acrid dead flesh met them like a wall as they came within closer vicinity of the post-mortem wing, yet none of them seemed to notice.

"Run over?" Sherlock asked, almost hopefully.

"Electrocuted, would you believe?" Lestrade corrected. "CCTV surveillance shows two people getting tickets for the last train on the Piccadilly Line at zero ten, neither get on, then the murderer shoves our victim in once the train passes and leaves. No witnesses were on the platform and the bastard had their face all bundled so we haven't got any way to identify them as of--"

"That's because /I/ haven't looked at it. E-mail it to me." Sherlock said stiffly.

Lestrade ignored his pomposity casually. "Once I get back to the office I can, but in the meantime, there's a forensics team onsite gathering what evidence they can before they have to open it back up. They had to shut down the power to get him off it. From what they told me, he was stuck to it. Luckily though, there's not likely to be any delays for the morning commuters, so that's good."

As he spoke, the trio had reached the autopsy room and Sherlock threw the doors open dramatically, before turning immediately on the spot, frowning. "Lestrade? Where's the body?"

All of the stainless steel tables inside were devoid of said corpse, though there was a rolling trolley sidled up next to one of them, laden with tools, as if a body was meant to arrive at any moment.

Lestrade's shoulders sagged at this point. "That's where we run into a bit of the problem, y'see," he led them inside against the wall of refrigerated body lockers, pushing his hands into his pockets. "It's in the ambulance, on it's way here. I wanted you in early 'cause there's something I need to tell you: I'm not strictly in charge of this investigation anymore. It's being taken up by ...well, do you remember a DI by the name of Gregson?" He flinched as he said it.

John felt Sherlock's whole demeanor change at the sound of that name. He drew up slightly tighter, with his hands fisting momentarily at his sides. If John hadn't been well learned in the subtility of Sherlock's body language, he would have missed it.

"Gregson." Sherlock tasted the name as if it were sour. "Yes. Of course." His cool eyes narrowed before smirking minutely. 

Lestrade read his features and the furrow in his brow deepened. "Yeah well, trust me when I say that he didn't take it very well when you solved that cold case, Sherlock. /Especially/ without being able to provide the murder suspect. He thinks you're holding out on him due to your guys' previous ...history."

Sherlock shrugged, shaking off the subtle affect the name had had. His voice dripped dangerously with sarcasm. "He's more than welcome to go after Moriarty himself if he's feeling so ambitious. After all, the British secret service can't seem to find him, so I'm sure the /smartest/ of the Scotland Yarders should be able to track him down...genius bunch that they are."

"Hang on. Moriarty? What are you two talking about?" John loathed being out of the loop, especially when it involved the likes of that bastard. He made himself be heard. "Who's Gregson?" 

He was having to play five years of catch up between these two men.

Sherlock turned to face him. "Do you remember when I said that the police weren't interested in Carl Powers' missing shoes?"

"Yeah..." He remembered the moment quite vividly actually, sitting in the cab on the way back from the lab, Sherlock having just had the epiphany of the questionable death of the child, all based on the Sussex mud caked onto one of the trainer's soles. It had rather stuck in his mind.

"Detective Inspector Tobias Gregson was in charge of that case for as much good as it did them. He was in his thirties then, he'd just been promoted to the position and felt he needed to prove himself. If only he'd listened to me. Even Dimmock had enough common sense to follow my lead on the Black Lotus smuggling case eventually, which boded well for him in the end. If Gregson had simply listened, he would have had every opportunity to make it to the top of the pecking order within five years..." Sherlock said, slightly wistful.

"But you were just a kid..." John blustered, but Lestrade had more wind and spoke over him.

"Right, and now that you've solved it, /twenty/ years later, you've put the wind up him and sullied his reputation." Lestrade interjected. "Making it hell for me, thankyouverymuch. Did you know he's taking over anything that has the remote possibility to save face before he retires? It's a bit disconcerting that; watching an old man have to scrabble to save his career from a cock-up like that.

"You just had to go and do it, didn't you? Couldn't have left the grumpy old bastard alone."

"I'm hardly to be blamed for him sabotaging his own self..." Sherlock spat, before something else occurred to him. "Wait. Lestrade? Why didn't we meet at the station? Once the first train leaves all the data will have been compromised--oh. He's forbidden you from consulting me, hasn't he? /That's/ his way of getting revenge. He hasn't changed at all."

Lestrade prickled slightly at the insinuation. "Now just a minute. He can't /forbid/ me to do anything." Then deflated. "But he was very, very clear about his rules. I'm to consult with him on this case as a sort of partner. We're working together...mostly. It's not the best of circumstances, but there's not much I can do for it; he's mates with the Chief Superintendent y'see. They'd have me sacked if I put up a protest." 

Lestrade suddenly looked helpless for a moment, like the world could come crashing down around his ears, speaking more to John's empathy. "I need this job. I've been at it for too long now to try and learn something new. Old dogs and all that...so I'm asking you guys as a friend if you'll do this for me. If you could both keep your heads down and not cause any trouble, ESPECIALLY you Sherlock, I'll let you stay and help out on the case. Alright?"

Sherlock rocked up onto the balls of his feet, his mind whirling as he completely ignored the DI's request. "If you're to be a consult with him, that means that these two cases are linked. Oh this is BRILLIANT!" He exclaimed, practically yelling. His baritone exaltation echoed loudly off the walls.

John found himself aloof again. "I don't understand. What two cases?"

"The night bus victim from two nights ago, John! Remember?" Sherlock pivoted towards Lestrade excitedly. "You've discovered correlations between them. You and Gregson are pooling evidence. Our killer is developing a pattern. Alas! Tell me everything. No. Wait. Shut up. I want to see for myself..." Sherlock was practically vibrating with excitement, muttering to himself. "Oh this is too good...this is just what I needed!"

"Glad to see you so chuffed." Lestrade remarked sarcastically, rolling his eyes. He tried to pull the man back to focus. "So speaking of the other case; we've got updates on our first victim:

"Followed up a lead involving a missing person's description and found out that our guy under the bus was a man named Athelny Jones, thirty-six, lived alone on Marylebone. Confirmed by fingerprints. He was reported missing when he didn't arrive for work. We're questioning co-workers for leads, but we haven't come up with anything yet."

John was still stuck back at processing the grudge between Sherlock and this faceless DI, knowing Sherlock would absorb any of the facts that were truly relevant about Mr. Jones. "If Gregson doesn't like Sherlock, then why have you asked us here at all? I mean, won't he come here with the body?" 

"That's where we've lucked out, see, Gregson doesn't like coming to the morgue." Lestrade answered. "Prefers to let the lab techs do this side of his work; he's old fashioned like that. So I thought you two could come here and help me out. Scratch my back and I'll keep you in evidence sort of thing. Gregson gets what he wants, I get what I want, and the process can move a bit quicker with your help. Everybody wins and then we can go out for pints."

"That's preposterous..." Sherlock muttered but John talked right over him. "What about Donovan? She'll have no reservations about telling Gregson we're here." John was trying to foresee possible disastrous scenarios while Sherlock continued to stare at the door impatiently.

"Iy. That got taken care of as well. Seems Gregson's taken her on as a personal assistant of sorts, so it's very possible we won't be seeing much of her--"

At that moment, pathologist Molly Hooper came shuffling into the door, mumbling down at a bone saw in her hand that she was flicking on and off, making the little motor whir and the toothed circular blade spin and stop and spin again. 

She uncoupled the wire from the base with some effort and then with more mumbling, looked up, "oh!" She startled and nearly dropping the mechanism at the sight of the huddled men. "Good morning everyone!" 

She absolutely beamed when her eyes fell upon Sherlock, despite him physically wilting at the fact that she was not the promised corpse on its way to be ruthlessly examined. 

"'Morning Molly." Lestrade and John both said in unison.

"Hello Sherlock. Lovely to see you." She pressed. 

He only deigned to acknowledge her when John put an elbow into his side, giving her a small, forced smile. But it was enough for her face to split into a cheek-aching grin, two dimples appearing beneath her eyes. Those, in combination with the two buns her hair was pulled back into, made her look like a little girl. Her white lab coat was the only thing that grounded her back into maturity.

"This is quite a turn up, so early in the morning. I was just um," she fumbled with the saw, having trouble coordinating her walking and staring at the brooding detective. "I was just getting my tools ready for um, for the body. Oo!" She kicked the edge of the nearby table and nearly went sprawling, but saved herself, and shut up the saw into the autoclave with a lot of noise. She poked the buttons to turn it on and spun back to the group like the calamity hadn't ever occurred.

"The ambulance called...said they were just pulling up to the lift. Should be here any second. Would anyone fancy some coffee? I can make a run--" but down the hall the lift doors pinged and two paramedics wheeled in a gurney with a corpse zipped into a black body bag. "That was quick."

John found himself the sudden recipient of a blue scarf and a large, heavy coat as they were unceremoniously shoved into his chest. 

Sherlock was already across the room and flitting about like a tall, dark hummingbird as the paramedics lifted the body up on a backboard and slid him onto the stainless steel table. The man's divested suit had been placed in a bag they'd dropped off with the body marked 'NSY EVIDENCE'. Molly signed a form of transfer and they left.

She worked quickly to put the man in situ, giving him a bit of posthumous dignity by covering his groin with a strip of sheeting, then stepped back to allow Sherlock in to investigate, getting an appreciative smile from John for her patience. Her bright beam back spoke of her unabashed understanding.

The dead man had been of medium height, with blondish hair and a muscular build. His chin canted up oddly on the headrest block and there were clear plastic bags over his head and hands to keep evidence in place. These were removed slowly and sealed carefully.

Sherlock immediately leant down to examine the red grin of a sealed incision above the man's right hip. "John? Come and have a look at this."

John laid Sherlock's Belstaff and scarf on an empty counter and snapped on some gloves, slightly bemused at Lestrade and Molly as they leaned in to examine along with him. Apparently feeling allowed to partake in the investigation vicariously.

John poked gently at the cut flesh, testing its resistance and gave it his best surgeon's scrutiny. "Looks like an appendectomy incision, and a very recent one too, going by the color. I'd say very VERY recent. God. Had to have been done no later than two days ago, approximately. It's definitely professional. No puss or infection. Though I thought appendectomies were done laparoscopically nowadays."

When Sherlock said nothing of this, he continued. "I suppose he could have just went to an older doctor or maybe an outpatient clinic that isn't quite up on the equipment or something...dunno. Poor sod's had a stroke of bad luck, though." John said.

"I agree." Molly added spiritedly. "If you'd like a second opinion." 

Sherlock slid in front of John to examine it for himself, still silent, and John made it a point to acknowledge Molly's contribution with a nod. She smiled sweetly at him. He liked Molly Hooper. She was a good egg.

They stood back as they watched Sherlock work, watching him swoop and duck, lean in and tilt back. He looked at everything from different angles, different distances. He disregarded certain areas outright, while others were practically focused on to the point of melting under his scrutinizing gaze. What difference there made between the areas, no one but Sherlock could tell.

"I need him flipped." Sherlock said after a while, crossing his arms carefully without touching his gloves to his person. When nobody moved he rounded on the group, spelling it out: "/Please./ Turn. Him. Over." And they all moved to comply.

The dead body didn't behave like a living one, which made moving it difficult. It was heavy and squidgy, all thirteen stones a loose bag of meat and bones that lolled jointlessly. The limbs swinging wild as they worked and huffed and grunted, but between the three of them, they managed to get it turned over. They kept his head laying parallel to his shoulder, to such a degree that his neck looked like it had been snapped.

Sherlock grinned as the others had the decency to give hisses of shock at the ruination they had uncovered. "There you are!" 

There were livid bruisings running across the dead man's thighs, but the worst was a wide bar of oily black and yellow flesh striping its way across the man's scapulae. The skin around it peeled back like paper to expose the soft pink meat beneath. 

"Some of this skin here," Sherlock pointed to the more tattered of the edges with his pinkie, "it's been pulled off."

"Yeah." Lestrade said. "Forensics apparently had a bit of a time getting him up off the rails. Seems his clothes melted to his skin. I suppose that's gonna happen when you get cooked alive by about 600 volts."

The snap of Sherlock's magnifying glass opening and closing resumed as the only sound in the room besides the squealing of his wingtips across the buffered floor. Molly shuffled quietly along behind him, filling out her clipboard in tight, loopy handwriting with the things she observed herself, while John and Lestrade stepped back to allow them more room. 

After a little bit, John leaned in to whisper, unable to cool his thoughts. "Greg? Can you elaborate on what happened between Gregson and Sherlock during the Carl Powers' case? He's never mentioned him before."

Lestrade leaned in as well, obliging. "Sure. No problem. Let's see if I can remember specifics...

"I was still a Sergeant when it all happened, so that would make it, what, back in the eighties? /Jesus/, that's been a while. I only heard it through the grapevine around the office, but the story goes that Gregson took up the Powers' case and immediately decided that it had been an accident, based on evidence. Totally open and shut. Nothing outrightly suspicious. And I guess it makes sense; young kid in a pool, has a conniption, gets water in his lungs and goes down like a rock. Happens more than you'd think.

"But then Sherlock, I dunno, must've been ten or eleven at the time, somehow got wind of it all and started calling Gregson, badgering him about it. You know how bolshie he can get, but just imagine him smaller, being like that. All worked up with his weird theories. 

"He just kept pressing the old bastard that something was wrong, on and on and on. Well, of course no one's going to listen to a kid, especially not one with ideas that were bigger than himself, so he starts ignoring his calls. Gregson does that and Sherlock ends up showing up /at his office/, raving on about how the kid's shoes are missing. Trying to make it an issue."

John interrupted him. "He told me that much, he said it was the case he started on. Read it in the paper." His brain automatically cycled back again to finding those trainers in 221C. The catalyst clue that had begun the horrendous game of cat-and-mouse with Moriarty, and the climactic night that had nearly ended in John and Sherlock being blown apart by semtex.

John rolled his shoulder against a lingering pang.

Lestrade continued on. "Might have, like I said, I wasn't there. So anyway, Gregson gets word that Sherlock's got a brother in the government, makes it out like he's being strong armed by the the Holmes brigade, and eventually just closes the case out of pure spite. Chalks it up to suicide and puts an end to all of it. 

"From there, I guess Sherlock finally left him alone. He disappeared for a while, I think he went off to college by then, but it definitely put Gregson off him for the rest of his career.

"Then flash forward to now, twenty years later, and we get that pink phone sent into the office and Sherlock solves the cold case, just like he does. Oh, Gregson went off in an aggro. Took it as a spit in the face. He gets worked up whenever anyone even /mentions/ Sherlock's name. So if he even gets a breath of him being here, he'll have my head."

"So then why are you even chancing it?"

"Benefits outweigh it, I guess." Lestrade shrugged. "More people should utilize Sherlock, I think, if they could ever get past their egos. He really does do some amazing work." He fell into contemplation. "I can't imagine what would happen if he was on the other side of things though. Took to the Dark Side. I reckon we'd all be screwed."

"Yeah." John said, but it was an open reply, one that didn't really answer anything. 

He turned back to the enraptured detective, who was peeling open the corpses eyes, revealing the starburst cataracts that had formed as the result of being fried. "So, what's your secret to putting up with him for this long Greg?"

"What? Are you looking for tips?"

"Maybe. I mean, how come you never treat him with open derision like Donovan and Anderson? You've got to be tempted sometimes." He felt Lestrade's eyes fall onto him and turned. "You're always so collected."

"Well, you know more than I do by now that Sherlock's an arsehole and arrogant and disrespectful and a sodding dictator if you let him be, and those are just the /good/ days. But I suppose I'm just use to it by now." Lestrade conceded and then looked very pleased. "There is one thing, a trick when it comes to dealing with His Nibs that I learned it from watching my sister try to control her two year old."

John chuckled at the comparison.

"No. Really." Lestrade allowed himself a few huffs of laughter, "it's all about redirection. Whenever my nephew, Sam's his name, whenever he'd start to have a pout or get into stuff he weren't suppose to, my sister'd just redirect him. Make him use that energy towards something else. Helped them both out; cut down on the shouting and kept Sam out of trouble. Well, for the most part anyway. I've tried it on Sherlock a'couple of times and it worked like a charm! I'm not kiddin' you! You should try it."

John considered this thoughtfully. "Ta. I'll keep it in mind." 

Lestrade lifted his chin. "Anything to help."

John let the smile fade on its own as Lestrade's demeanor came back to sober, thinking more on the initial question. "But also, you have to look at it from Sherlock's point of view. To him, it's all about the clues. The case. It's just what his life is. 

"And I can't blame him really, when I first met him he was in pretty rough shape. Anderson and Donovan never saw him like that, so they don't understand. But when he was a teenager, after he came back from whatever extended holiday he was on, he all of a sudden started showing up to crime scenes. He was always strung out on...well, whatever it was...and just looking to keep himself entertained. Even when we'd chase him off or stick him overnight in the holding cells, he'd always be out by morning and back, letting us know about all the stuff we got wrong or what we should have paid more attention to. 

"It didn't take me very long to see his potential. He does have a gift. I think puzzle solving...yeah...I think it's what saved his life, honestly. It's easier to let him be who he is when you figure that out."

John nodded, letting the concept seep in. 

An idea of the Sherlock before John was coming together for him now, bits and pieces from Lestrade's, Mrs. Hudson's, and Mycroft's first-hand accounts coalescing to reveal more and more of what he had suspected all along: that Sherlock was, and had always been, a beautifully strange man with a spectacular brain lost in a world that didn't understand him.

And the enormity of it was all rather heartbreaking.

"If you're quite finished talking about me, could you lay out his suit please John?" Sherlock's deep voice was heavy in the silence. He had two fingers and a thumb pulling the man's limp tongue out from his pried-open jaw and holding it out of the way as he probed two fingers inside. A rather outlandish scene if it hadn't been so commonplace. "Lestrade, Molly, look at this." He was pointing to the milky white residue smeared beneath his tongue.

"Lorazepam, right? Same as the last one?" Lestrade muttered, coming forward.

"Last one?" Molly asked and Lestrade obliged to fill her in on the bus man.

The suit John carefully unfolded was ridiculously nice and it laid down well at the pressed creases. He left the suit jacket open to reveal the large strip of half-missing burnt fabric across the back, still stuck with bits of skin.

John remembered what Sherlock had said about the peculiar smell of the Mr. Jones' suit and subtly leaned over the table for a cautious whiff, drawing back with no more insight than he had had before, though curled his lip slightly at the sickly barbeque smell he inhaled instead. 

He caught Sherlock's smirk as the detective gravitated towards the second table.

Almost immediately, Sherlock tilted his head towards top of the suit, having spotted something and stooped until he was mere centimeters away from the collar. He plucked something from beneath its fold with a quick move and wadded it into his glove as he stripped them. John saw him shove it into his pants pocket while the others were still busy looking at the dead man and shook his head in exasperation. Which earned him a disarming wink from the Consulting Detective.

Lestrade shifted on his feet just after the dubious action was finished. "So, Sherlock, got any theories?"

"Seven so far." Sherlock replied coolly, busying himself with rifling through the man's pockets, checking the hems, and stuffing his nose against the armpits and groin of the suit, taking large, audible whiffs. Everyone shifted uncomfortably between their feet as he did it. 

"So go on," Lestrade preceded, "give us what you've got."

Sherlock stood tall and turned to them, drawing in a suggestive breath with his light eyes turning to saffron in the halogen. His hands coming up to steeple before the soft blade of his face, almost as if in offering. "Our murderer chose these two men because they possess nearly identical traits; same height, same physique, even the same hair color.

"Both men have had their first and second molars removed, both have been drugged with Lorazepam, and both men were pushed to their deaths. This is good. This is very, VERY good."

"/Bad/, Sherlock. This is bad because they've been murdered--" John tried, but was ignored.

"The pusher went through the trouble to treat both men exactly the same premortem. Both were given extravagant suits in such a brief period of time that the material used in making both is sure to have come from the same bolt of fabric. Definitely having been made by the same private tailor sewn with identical stitching and thread.

"Which is, if you think about it, TRULY staggering as each jacket alone would require at least eighteen hours' labor to create. Look at this work! They were completely hand-cut with scissors; the chest, lapels, collar, armholes, buttonholes, lining, pockets and sleeves are all sewn by hand. Including everything being hand-pressed.

"Someone went through an excessive amount of trouble to clothe these men, only to kill them. The time constraints force us to consider premeditation and thusly further confirms my previous theory that the killer is developing a pattern. One which is escalating quickly. 

"They're looking for and providing highly specified criteria for the murders; are already acquainted, or at least visually familiar with the victims, and have a general mode of operandi with which to off them. But why? There's something I'm not seeing. Why are these men being killed with such specificity?"

"Revenge?" John suggested. "You said that Mr. Jones had a relationship with the pusher. Maybe they were unfaithful?"

"Pretty quick turn around for a jilted lover." Lestrade interjected.

"Could be a rebound that didn't work out." Molly squeaked, speaking up. "Maybe this second victim just couldn't fill the hole left by the first one. Couldn't live up to the expectations, even if they did look the same?" 

Sherlock's hands stopped chopping the air and he turned, considering her truly for the first time now that she had something important to contribute. "Interesting..." 

"Is it?" She flushed at his praise.

Sherlock took on this new train of thought with a quick and significant shuffle of his eyes. "He's trying to get our attention. This isn't about love, this is about a declaration. He murders his victims in places where there is a low chance for witnesses, yet does so with the intention of having his victims ostentatiously found. 

"Think about it! He could just easily dispose of their bodies in an unknown location, get away with the crime, but he chooses not to. Just as much as he could leave them wearing what they would every day, but he doesn't. He's proud of his kill and he wants us to know it. He's developing a ritual with VERY specific parameters. He wants an /audience/. Ooo! This is turning out better than I expected...we have another serial killer on our hands...how marvelous!"

"Hang on. Did you just switch pronouns? How do you know the killer's a /he/?" John asked.

Sherlock spun on Lestrade, practically vibrating with pleasure. "I assume that the victim had his back turned towards the tunnel when he was shoved, yes? Possibly engaging in conversation with the disguised man?"

"He was." Lestrade confirmed. Simple enough.

"And I also assume that the push the murderer used took a lot of effort in order to get the victim off his feet and down onto the rails, yes? He had to step back a few paces and strike him here," he made a motion towards Lestrade's solar plexus, "low, in the abdomen. Correct?"

Lestrade agreed again, slightly surprised as Sherlock had not seen the CCTV video yet.

"And how does that mean it's a 'he'?" John asked, causing Sherlock to turn his irradiating attention upon him.

"Newton's second law." Sherlock said definitively.

Which only caused John's further confusion. "What?"

Sherlock growled at his incompetence. "The force acting upon an object is equal to the rate at which its momentum changes. Do you get it now?"

"I know what the second law /is/, I just don't know how it applies to..."

"GAH! Why do I even keep you around?! All Underground trains run on a four-rail system John. Pay attention. There are the running rails; which is what the train wheels rest upon and then there are the conductor rails, which is what the traction current passes through. 

"Picture yourself standing on the platform waiting for a train. Are you picturing it? The rail closest to you is the left-hand running rail, then there's the negative conductor rail, followed by the right-hand running rail, and finally the positive conductor rail along the back. This last one is where the most dangerous of the voltage passes through, which is why it's set the furthest away from the platform's edge.

"But our murderer knew this and calculated that he would have to shove our victim with enough force to get him fall over three other rails. He's smart. His victim was solidly built with a low center of gravity, it would have taken a lot of force to get him up in the air and across a distance of three meters. 

"From that, we can safely infer that it's statistically most likely that the murderer is male; as a woman would not possess the upper body strength necessary to achieve such a result. Is it obvious enough now?"

"Sort of, I mean. When you put it like that." John said lamely as if it should have made sense all along. He laid down his hackles at the madman's onlslaught, relenting to the fact that he should just assume Sherlock was right and let the point go.

"So then why is he taking their teeth?" Molly asked, trying to dissipate the tenseness in the room.

"He'd take them all if they were trying to hide the identity, wouldn't he? So...trophies maybe?" Lestrade said in a way that spoke of macabre experience, joining in. "I think it's unlikely that two men just happened to get the same set of teeth pulled out of their heads right before they died, though I guess that would match up with your dentist theory Sherlock..." His voice petered off and look of concern suddenly creased Lestrade's face. "Sherlock?"

"Are you okay?" Molly asked as well, her face taking on the same look with her hand rising towards him.

"What?" Sherlock came stunned out of his thoughts, blinking at the three pairs of eyes on him. "Yes, of course I am."

"It's just," she reached up and touched his neck with her fingertips, coming away red. "There's blood."

"Shit." John muttered and stepped around Lestrade to stop Sherlock from reaching up to touch it as well, taking his elbow. "Nothing to worry about. C'mon. Let's get that fixed up."

"What happened?" Molly asked, worriedly.

"Just a fire axe." Sherlock added unhelpfully.

"A fire axe?!" Lestrade and Molly gawped at the same time.

"It's nothing. Just be a minute." John reassured them. "Molly? Where do you keep your first aid kit?" He asked. He was directed towards the scrub room on the other side of the double doors, the ones she'd come through carrying the circular bone saw earlier, and drug Sherlock through it.

He settled him onto a stool and found the red kit with a white cross attached to the wall. When he'd come back to Sherlock, the detective had his hands steepled under his chin again. "Oh John, this is wonderful."

"Uh-huh. Tilt." John went about his work, pulling on nitrile gloves and manipulating Sherlock's head as if it were on a convenient swivel, tipping it onto his freshly papered shoulder. The old bandaging came off easily, completely saturated with blood and John did his best cleaning it with sterilized wipes. It took some manic rubbing to get it out of his hair.

Under the harsh fluorescent light it was easier to see than it had ever been in their bathroom with two light bulbs burnt out. John was able now to look over the laceration with new clarity and fresh eyes, frowning at the unusual markings. "Sherlock? Did you try to stitch this up on your own last night?"

"What? Oh. Yes." Sherlock was only slightly concerned with the topic. "Couldn't finish though. My hands kept shaking and the angle in relation to the mirror was too obtuse. Couldn't see properly." There was a mess of half hearted punctures bitten along the edge, with only one true hole pierced through. It had to have been hard as hell to do.

John's shoulders slumped, something inside him twinging badly at the idea that Sherlock had had to take it upon himself to try and give himself medical aid. "You could have woken me up."

"You were angry." Sherlock said simply.

"Yes, which seems to be pretty typical as of late." John sighed. "You can't expect me to not be angry when you do something like that, you know. It's a normal human reaction to a bloody goose in a place it doesn't belong. I'd ask you why it's in there in the first place, but I imagine that's the least of your focus right now." 

"An opal." Sherlock mumbled, barely loud enough for John to catch. He had vacated his bright eyes, staring at the wall beyond the doctor.

"An opal?" John repeated, not at all sure what that meant. "Are you talking about the goose?"

"Yes, John." Then he added, just as vaguely, "Sabastopol."

"Ooookay. I have no idea what any of that means." John gave it up for the moment. "Well, I can put some lidocaine cream on this if it's hurting, there's some in here. Sherlock? Oi! Ground control to major Holmes, do you copy? Are you in pain? And don't just write it off as some inconvenience of your /transport/. You need to tell me if it is." He squeezed his shoulder, drawing him back.

"Yes, yes." Sherlock flapped his hand, annoyed. "Do your doctorly duties."

"Don't move for a second." He squeezed out a dollop on his ring finger and smeared it over the angry wound, taking care to press some against the cut along his scalp as well, keeping as little as he could out of the wild, wet curls. "There." 

John found a heady comfort in the solidarity of his work; healing was his nature. He asked the hollowed man before him if it was okay to unbutton the top button of his shirt for better access to the blood that had dribbled down his neck and Sherlock only hummed an admission. He was afloat in the sea of deductions.

John wiped slowly with the alcohol pads, letting the time between them fall away, letting his brain unspool as he had needed it to for a long while now.

It strung out all the amazing and terrible and wonderful things that his life had suddenly become since his moving in with this madman. How only four months previous, he'd been sitting in his therapist's office, pathetic as a mongrel with a cane he didn't truly need, having trust issues and claiming that nothing ever happened to him.

And now;

Now, he was being drug around London solving crimes, being randomly kidnapped off the front step of Baker Street, chasing serial killers through back alleys, being forced into explosive vests, hunting down Chinese gangsters and sing-song terrorists, and sharing a flat with the world's most impossible man.

A man who didn't sleep and didn't eat and played the violin like a savant. Who shot the wall and saved the day and shattered John into a million tiny pieces, while filling him with such joy that he couldn't ever hope to define it.

And the nucleus of it all was that of all times to be on the brink of another crazy case, there was the incredibly terrifying, totally outrageous, and potentially amazing possibility that he would share his bed too. Be a half in the most intimate of intimate things that the world's only Consulting Detective could share...and it rocked John Watson to his core.

Had Sherlock even been in a sexual relationship? John's guts told him no, but he felt it necessary to sit the man down and get it all hashed out beforehand. Maybe they'd have a cuppa and a serious conversation when they got back to the flat, but there was the distinct possibility that Sherlock wouldn't want to talk about anything now that they had a case going on. In fact, that was the most likely scenario. Which was good, John supposed. That gave him time to think about it, get used to the idea that this could even happen. Let him think about what he wanted to say and ask about and know.

John was wiping all presence of rouge from the detective's throat with a cathartic motion, letting his imagination turn the glistening streaks into porn-worthy laves from his tongue. Conjuring up what soft sounds he might illicit with such ministrations and just what precisely a Consulting Detective must taste like.

He wondered if Sherlock moaned, or if he wailed, or if he made no sound at all.

"I believe I've been sufficiently cleaned now John."

But what were they going to do if it went badly? John was certain Sherlock wouldn't have any trouble returning back to normal. He'd do whatever he did to the celestial physics of the universe and blink it away. What would a bad idea between friends matter in comparison?

John dreaded his own reaction if such a thing were to occur. What if it went REALLY bad? What would he do if he were to find himself cut bereft once again? Forced from his new home? Would he have to retreat back into a bedsit? Soldier on? Put himself out of his own-- but he supposed they'd cross that bridge if they came to it.

Count to ten. Calm down. 

It'd be fine.

"John?"

His hand stilled as he realized Sherlock had been watching him the entire time from the corner of his eye, and John flushed profusely with embarrassment. "Sorry." He found it hard to clear his throat, putting all his focus into manipulating a fresh bandage open and getting it on while binning his gloves and cleaning up his mess. "Um, got lost. We'll ah...right. How's that feel? Numb? I certainly do...good...yes." Sherlock's eyebrow raised.

"Since you seem to be lingering on the subject anyway; I saw the condoms you purchased. You have come to a decision, I take it." John fought the crawling flush that warmed his neck, but couldn't manage a nod, which didn't seem to matter much, as Sherlock was speaking rhetorically. "Magnum size? Really? You are aware that that is nothing more than a marketing ploy, right? They're not any larger than the regular size."

"Oh. Aren't they?" John supposed he should have known that, but he was thrown off kilter, stricken into a hazy sense of immobility at the twentieth proverbial curve ball thrown at him in the past twenty-four hours.

"However," Sherlock continued, "extras are always ideal. So it's certainly not an ineffectual purchase. I suppose you'll be wanting to discuss the parameters of our arrangement in further detail once we return home?"

"I--"

"And it should be fairly obvious that we will not be engaging in sexual intercourse while this or any case is on."

"I figured--"

"Are you finished?" Sherlock gestured to his ear, long since cleaned and numbed.

"Y...yes?" John suddenly found his unmoving hands being pushed away, allowing Sherlock to sit up with a slight grimace at sore muscles. He had been bent oddly for a rather long while. 

John was only vaguely aware that they had just come to a cursory agreement on...whatever it was they were to partake in. Did it have a name? Friends with benefits? Partners? What had he just been thinking about?

"Very well," Sherlock said with satisfied finality, rebuttoning his top button and fluffing out his hair very carefully over the new dressing to disguise it. "I look forward to it." And with that he gave John an eye-crinkling smile that made John's heart drop down into the cold clutch of his guts. 

He stood to his full height, looming very closely with his back towards the window that showed Molly and Lestrade chatting over the corpse. And John could do nothing but stand frozen, jaw slack, as one long hand swooped in and took him gently by the back of the neck, while the other was pressed around the side of his hip. 

Sherlock paused leaning in, allowing his intentions to be known and John could do nothing but soften into those galaxial eyes and those impossible lips as they whispered in a subsonic pitch: "kiss me John Watson."

And he did.

//

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oo1. Athelny Jones was an inspector from Sir Doyle's 'The Sign of Four.' Just stole his name 'cause I liked it.
> 
> oo2. the star-shaped cataracts occuring in a person who's been electrocuted is something that can really happen: 
> 
> http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/01/23/star-shaped-cataract-electrical-burn_n_4651427.html


	5. CHAPTER FIVE - The Adventures of the Indicted Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy shit. RL tried to smother me with the election season and a little bout of depression, but i'm back and working on this again. thank you for your patience.
> 
> I imagine Dr. Sipe as being played by Liam Neeson.

//

Their mouths were a crash of heat and soft sounds.

Sherlock cradled the back of John's skull so softly in his long, thin fingers that it could have been a cut diamond suspended in the tines of a ring, but, incidentally, it was for the sake of efficiency; allowing Sherlock to position their heads in the exact counterpoint to have their salient noses slide right past each other's and strike home. Which in itself was quite impressive.

John reveled in the singular focus of the lashing tongue and clinking teeth and the mad scrabble for purchase from Sherlock's pouted lips and wide, pan-encompassing hands. They collided as soundly as the polar opposites they were.

John had kissed tall men before, not ever having allowed his shorter stature to become a handicap, but with Sherlock in particular, tipped over him and crowded so close, every bit the wild stallion of a man he could not predict, let alone control, John's knees chose this time to turn into traitorous water. 

The instant they buckled, Sherlock held his weight, as though his submission was the point of it all. He worked John's mouth until it was open and pliant, encouraging John to allow his tongue to probe deftly inside. Sherlock ate the half-moan that crawled up John's throat and took it as welcome to lick deeper and harder inside, scraping his tongue along the crowns of John's teeth and driving them both back a step or two before the doctor finally - and begrudgingly - put his hands around Sherlock's biceps, squeezing in monition before it went too far. They were in a /morgue/, after all. It had to sacrilege, or something.

They broke apart panting heavily.

Nearly overwhelmed with the vivace canter of his heartbeat and the mad rush of escaping blood making him dizzy, John was awestruck. His voice barely a sound as he fought to reclaim his breath. "That was amazing..."

"Was it?" Sherlock's voice, in turn, was made of dark pitch. He wiped his wet chin with the back of his hand. The fleeting inquiry in his face spirited away as soon as it was there, replaced by a satisfied calm.

"Of course it was. That was extraordinary...that was quite..." John's trailed off as the deja vu washed over him. 

"Extraordinary." Sherlock finished and John followed his pale, transfixed eyes down to the placket of his own jeans where the heavy fabric was straining against his tumescence. 

John huffed a bright stab of laughter through his nose in both amazement and alarm and allowed more room between them. Sherlock didn't seem to be suffering the same result; all the lines of his suit lay perfectly once he gave his jacket a stiff tug and smoothing down and John couldn't help the swell of suddenly feeling a bit grotty.

Maybe Sherlock just took longer to get worked up, which was fine. It took him ages to realize his body was screaming for sustenance and rest after all, so what was one more denial? Nothing to worry about. They were on a case, after all. He'd made that point very clear. Don't confuse assumptions with facts. That was the number one rule. 

John flexed his left hand out slowly and fought the room from its want to waltzer. 

"I can create a diversion with which to distract them while your parasympathetic activity subsides," Sherlock offered softly, waving a hand in the direction of John's pelvis. "If you'd like."

John blinked, catching up to his ears. "That's very ...clinical of you, Sherlock." And almost laughed. "And kind. But no."

"Are you sure? I'm very good at driving people to distraction." He continued cheekily, which lessened John's unease a bit with what presumably had been a double entendre.

Whatever it was, he was obviously very VERY good.

"No. Thanks. I, um, I think I'll just walk it off, actually. Maybe go get some coffee from the cafeteria. Would you like one?" 

Sherlock gave a crinkled smile at John's obvious choice to walk well farther out of his way than necessary. "You know what I like. I need to make some phone calls while you're out. Excuse me." Sherlock brushed by him out into the hall without another word and John found himself staring bereft at his back. 

"Right. I'll just, uh *ahem* ask the others." John told himself aloud, trying to reassert his intentions.

He tugged at the hem of his jacket to cover himself, took a loud breath, and poked his head out the door to check that the coast was clear. Before immediately freezing in place. 

Lestrade's globus eyes met him and time seemed to grind into slow motion. They told John with their diameter exactly what the Detective Inspector had just been witness to. 

John swallowed the brittle lump on the rise in his throat and looked pointedly over to Molly, /praying/ that she too hadn't seen. But luckily Molly was standing with her back turned to the scrub room, busy calibrating the hanging scale pan up on her tiptoes, completely oblivious to it all. She had donned all the gear necessary to continue the autopsy internally. The large, black smock contrasting almost comically with her khaki trousers, thick-soled white trainers, and polka dot socks.

John turned his gaze back to Lestrade and shook his head minutely, conveying what he could without speaking. He'd noticed Molly's infatuation with Sherlock almost from the beginning, and it would kill him to break her heart. Lestrade seemed to understand and deflated around his shock, though his face remained mostly agog.

"Oh. You took a bit." Molly said as she turned finally to put the weights away. She blinked confusedly between the two awkwardly staring men. "I hope everything's alright."

John and Lestrade both responded at the same time with completely opposite responses, confusing their words and leaving Molly caught wanting between their two explanations. She turned more to John to speak next.

"Oh. I just meant, well, I was talking about Sherlock's ear. If everything's alright with that. I mean, I'm sure it is, I just...you're a doctor. Of course it's fine." She resigned herself to a small, mousy smile.

"I was just going to get some coffee. Would either of you care for some?" John tried a last-ditch effort for affability.

"Oh please! That would be lovely!" Molly acquiesced. "Heavy on the milk and lots and lots of sugar for me. 'Til the spoon stands up' like my dad use to say."

"Lestrade?" John's voice cracked.

"Um..." Lestrade shook himself out of his trance finally, shifting on his feet. "Sure. Yeah. Please. Black, if you would."

Sherlock reentered from the hallway door, slipping his phone into his pants pocket with a bit of a swagger in his step, on full display for those who would notice. Lestrade gave John another wild-eyed gaze and John remained unable to rebuff it.

Molly, of course, was delightfully oblivious. "Sherlock! You're looking much better. I mean, not that you didn't before. I just meant, well, you always look good--"

"Molly--"

"Sorry. I just um, well, I was wondering if you weren't busy if you'd like to gross with me. No. That's not right. I would like it very much if you would perform...no, let me start over." She took a deep breath. "Sherlock? Would you perhaps like to perform the grossing with me?" She bit her lips and held out a large scalpel towards him, presenting it as the gift of allowing him to do the Y-incision.

Sherlock raised a tentative eyebrow, watching Molly's face flush to a very bright pink. "Yes," he said slowly, driven into further confusion by her small shriek of joy and subdued gambol. "I've got a couple hours before we need to leave. Do you have any objections John?" He looked pointedly over to the hiding man, but merely received a shrug in return. John wasn't aware of anything else they had going on.

"Excellent." Sherlock smiled openly and made his way over to the counter to pull on a pair of prophylactic gloves, a large black smock, and safety glasses Molly had laid out for him. He took up the proffered scalpel and waited for Molly and Lestrade to laboriously turn the body back over. "So. I assume we'll be employing the Rokitansky method..."

The rest of the conversation was lost as the doors swung shut behind John. Taking solace at a fast clip down the hall towards the lift, willing his erection to stand down and his emotions to cease in their whirlwind.

//

When he returned more presentable to polite company and balancing four coffees in a carrier, he found Lestrade standing as if in sentry outside the autopsy room door. His trench coat made him seem formidable, but his soft features showed his true intent.

"Greg." John acknowledged as he ground to a halt in front of him. He felt incredibly more able to handle this now that he'd had his little sojourn to think about it. He was even quite impressed with how calm his voice came out.

"Thanks very much for this. I definitely need it after ...this morning." Lestrade reached out to take the cup marked 'BL' and seemed to hesitate about continuing. 

A quick lift of his chin towards the window and John was able to see Molly opening the dead man's esophagus with a pair of scissors, all smiles and furtive glances to Sherlock, who was going at the organ bloc with an eighteen inch long knife, slicing the lungs and trachea away from the corpse's over-cooked heart. Totally in his element. 

"So." Lestrade seemed to find his voice finally as John stared. "You and Sherlock?"

"Yes. Me and Sherlock." John met the eyes of the older man as if he were about to protest. Finding himself stubbornly at ease with his feet beneath his shoulders in mimicry of parade rest, save for his occupied hands. A comfortable place.

"Oh." Lestrade hadn't expected a full-on admission. "Well that's...good. How long has this been going on? If I can ask..."

"Quite recently. Yesterday, in fact."

"Oh. Great." Lestrade's tan face was flushing darkly and he tugged at his collar. "Well, I always sort of wondered...er, I mean...I was just a bit gobsmacked, before, when I saw you two...y'know? But it could work." He nodded numbly, motivating himself to say what he'd apparently been rehearsing in his head when he'd seen John coming down the hall. "For what it's worth, I'm happy for you John. You and Sherlock both. I'm not gonna say he deserves you or that you deserve him, because, well it's /Sherlock/, but I guess what I think doesn't matter 'cause you two work well together, right? I mean, who else could stand to live with him? Ah, I'm making a cock-up of this. Let me try again."

He cleared his throat. "What I mean to say is that what I said before, about him being a great man with potential, it still applies. And if /anyone/ had even a snowball's chance in Hell at making Sherlock a good man, well, I'd put my money on you, mate. Just know that and forget all the rest. You two have my support, no matter what happens."

John smiled in response and shuffled his feet. "Oh. Ta. That's very kind of you Greg." The combination of sentiment and audacity made his eye squint. "I'll uh, certainly try my best." 

"Right. Oh, and uh John. If you could pass it along to Sherlock that if he bloody breaks your heart, I have your permission to knock his arse out the minute I find out, that would be great." Lestrade raised his cup in salute and grimaced behind a burnt tongue, appreciating John's surprised laugh. "You'll be wanting to keep it quiet I expect? For now anyway."

"If you would."

Lestrade settled elegantly into this new understanding, nodding. "Sure. Yeah, of course. Though when you two do decide you'd like to make an announcement...can, um, will you warn me before hand? I'd like to get a video of Donovan and Anderson's reactions."

John snorted. "I think we might be able to arrange that."

The awkwardness dissipated and a camaraderie of silence fell between them for a time. Then Lestrade shifted in place. "Listen. I'm no expert on relationships, but if you ever wanted to, y'know, maybe grab a pint or--"

A third voice startled them both; Sherlock having silently poked his head out the door. "Given the abysmal state of your marriage, Inspector, I would ask that you refrain from deluging John with your biliary ignorance concerning relationships and focus solely on your police work. 

He made to disappear, then thought better of it. "Or, better yet, volunteer yourself as an outlet for John so that he may discuss his football ...fixation with someone. God knows why he would require something so tedious in his life when he's got me, but it would be better than him talking AT ME about it whenever he feels it necessary. Do that instead." There was a smear of blood on his goggles from where he'd absently pushed back his hair, his eyes as bright as hellfire. "But nevermind that now. Come inside the both of you. There's something you need to see."

"Well, it's certainly a relief to know it won't be having an effect on his manners; his being with someone." Lestrade muttered, unscathed, and held the door open for John.

The cadaver was barely more than a hollowed out bowl of bone and tissue by this time. All his thoracic organs having been removed and spread out in chapters next to him on a rolling gurney with high sides covered in heavy plastic. 

"Well?" Sherlock asked after a moment, looking positively maniacal as dark shadows cut harsh lines into his face. "Tell me what you see."

Molly was fighting her lips from coming apart, her clipboard striving to keep her hands occupied as her eyes flicked excitedly to Sherlock every now and again, as if she was on the verge of blurting out the answer. John and Lestrade simply looked upon the gore like the world's two most put-upon men.

"Uh...a mess?" Lestrade stated lamely and Sherlock didn't even bother to give him an eye roll, his gaze was locked fixedly on John, willing him to be the more observant one. John set down the remaining coffees on the counter in order to be able to focus better. "Um," he followed the progression of the organs from the top down, hoping something would simply jump out at him. 

There was the heart, of course, uncloaked from the lungs, the shelf of diaphragm, the ruddy, lopsided mass of the liver, the stomach, the tongue-shaped pancreas, spleen, gallbladder, the flayed duodenum of the small intestine, the kidney--hang on. 

"Where's his right kidney?" 

"Well spotted doctor." Sherlock rubbed his hands together excitedly and arched an eyebrow as the whole of it dawned on his star pupil. "Where indeed?"

His brain was suddenly on rapid-fire. "The incision..." John blinked as his observations coalesced. "That's why the appendectomy wasn't performed laparoscopically; because it wasn't an appendectomy at all. It was a nephrectomy. Oh my God." The Hippocratic Oath he'd chosen to take before graduating flared to the forefront of his mind, its outright violation making his guts turn cold. /I shall not cut for stone/.

"What?" Lestrade asked, leaning in to try and see what he saw.

"The incision...it's in the wrong place. It wasn't meant to be operative at all; it was made for convenience." John was horrified. 

"I still don't..." Lestrade began confusedly.

"What John is trying to convey, is that the pusher has made himself a convenient human grab bag, in which he can simply /root around/ and take whatever it was that he liked. He managed to camouflage such an indignity by hiding it in plain sight, thus, ignoring all the moral practices of 'do no harm'. He felt confident enough with this murder being caught on video that he suspected there would no reason to investigate internally." His tone, as he said it, was only slightly mocking.

"Oh." Lestrade rocked back on his heels as the gravity set in, his shoe leather creaking. "Shit."

Sherlock sidled up beside John. "It appears that not only did he help himself to this man's kidney; he also pilfered a rather large section of liver from here."

John took a steady breath and ignored the twinge in his shoulder while the disgust ebbed. "So the murderer's stealing organs then? He's an organ thief."

"For what? The black market?" Lestrade asked.

"It certainly would be worth considering. Organ trafficking is quite a lucrative endeavor." Sherlock agreed.

Lestrade scratched his head, contemplative. "Yeah but, he could have survived this? Theoretically. I mean, the murderer didn't take anything too important. I know you can live without a kidney and I've also heard you only need a part of your liver to have it regrow, so if he got what he wanted, why wouldn't he have let the poor bastard just heal up and leave? Why'd he have to kill 'im?" 

John was shaking his head, leaning in with his hands clasped behind his back and looking with a more clinical lens. There was only so much he could do for the man now. "It would have been too catastrophic for his body to deal with the loss of both organs at the same time. Both excisions have been professionally cauterized, but it would have been too much trauma on his system. He would have gone into metabolic shock and wound up dead in a short time anyway. It was a bloody miracle he was up and walking as it was."

"That's where the Lorazepam comes in." Sherlock interjected, his gory hands squelching as he put his palms together. "I believe it was administered to shut down all extraneous brain functions to put the victims on a sort of auto-pilot, just enough to make them motile. It tricked their brains into forgetting about the fact that they were dying. The murderer only requires his victim's to remain alive long enough to gift them a suit, lead them to the intended location, and then dispatch them before they can talk."

"How much is a kidney worth anyway?" Lestrade inquired, like an afterthought.

Sherlock was quick to answer, looking down at his watch, and then quickly stripping off his autopsy gear. "It depends entirely upon which country it's in and who's receiving it, but the final price is generally between ten thousand and one hundred and sixty thousand quid." 

"Blimey, one hundred and sixty bags?" Lestrade was a bit boggled.

"How come he doesn't just take all of them then, if he's making that kind of money?" Molly asked quietly. "My dad, he had cancer, he was on the transplant list up until he died, so I know how rare it is to actually get a viable one. But I mean, and I'm not saying it's in the least bit ethical, but if he's going to kill them anyway, why waste them? From what I've seen here, they're all perfectly healthy organs. What's the point of leaving all the other bits if someone could use them?" 

"Maybe there's an inventory he's going by? Like he only needs specific organs and he's just ticking off a checklist..." John responds. "Supply and demand?"

"The thought had occurred." Sherlock's light eyes flitted wildly in his head. "The truth remains, however, that we need more data. Our pusher is working quickly and it's doubtful that he's finished in his endeavors. If we're to consider his previous timeline, he'll have another victim either in his possession or chosen for tonight. We need to act quickly in order to catch him unaware."

John sighed out of his nose. "Alright. So what about the previous victim? Mr. Jones? Can't we open him up too and see what's missing from him? That could give us some more clues on what precisely he's looking for." He noticed Lestrade and Molly's faces take on a pinched look as he said it.

"There's a bit of a problem with that, unfortunately." Molly squirmed. "When we took Mr. Jones out of his body bag, since he was all twisted around, he sort of...well--"

"Y'know when the bottom of your rubbish sack falls out 'cause it's wet and too heavy?" Lestrade grimaced. "He sort of /came apart/ in the same fashion."

"We had to chuck what was left of him in the bin and send him down to the furnace. There wasn't really a choice. He made an awful mess."

John pulled a face as Molly finished speaking, while Sherlock managed to look a little tetchy at the loss of evidence.

"Although, on the bright side, I think some did manage to land in Anderson's shoe." Lestrade quipped, and elbowed Molly companionably. 

"Being the LEAST awful thing he deserves." Sherlock mumbled and had suddenly donned his Belstaff. He glanced down at his phone, before slipping it back into his pocket and looping his scarf around his throat. He left his requested coffee full and abandoned in the carrier on the counter. "Speaking of; he'll be headed this way with the Yards' forensics team just now so John and I had better be off. Mustn't dawdle. Good morning."

The immediacy of his wanting to leave seemed to startle the whole room into action.

"What? Now?" John asked, while Molly whimpered, "you're leaving already? I thought we'd have time to search his stomach's contents together..." and Lestrade balked loudest of all: "Oi! We're right in the middle of discussing this case Sherlock. You can't go yet."

"Can and will." Sherlock smiled badly. "It's been a pleasure Inspector, really. Molly, thank you for a riveting morning. Fun was had by all. But we really must be going." Sherlock was practically bullying John towards the door, handing John his undrunk coffee in response to his protest while Lestrade tried to physically block the exit with himself. 

"Suggest to Anderson that despite the fact that he's barely qualified to be a forensics investigator, he might want to pay particular attention to the collar of the suit. That should help Gregson narrow in on a suspect rather quickly." Sherlock finally steered John by his shoulders, sidestepping them easily around the DI. "Come along John. You've an appointment to keep."

"What appointment?" John was now just as confused. Droplets of jostled coffee splashing on the floor and miraculously missing his shoes.

"I've booked you an appointment with the dentist." Sherlock said simply.

"DENTIST? Oh that's a bloody /fine/ coincidence! What the hell Sherlock! You trying to take the Mickey out of me?" Lestrade realized quickly what was happening. He knew he was stuck here to meet the incoming forensics team, and knowing that Sherlock knew that as well, made it all the less palatable. Sherlock was going freelance and there was nothing he could do to stop him. "If you've got a lead I need to know it! You can't just swan off! Sherlock! You're suppose to be helping me!"

"I did help you. And Gregson. More than you both deserve. Tsk tsk Inspector. Fraternizing with the enemy. You ought to be ashamed."

"What are you talking about! I didn't have a choice--!"

"What dentist's appointment, Sherlock? What are you on about?" John asked amongst the upheaval, digging in his heels and stopping their progression just inside the doorway.

Sherlock huffed irritably. "I've booked you an appointment that's to take place in fifteen minutes if we can avoid mid-morning traffic. Your second premolar on the bottom's been chipped and you need it repaired. ASAP."

John was slightly startled. It was true. His tooth had been cracked initially when he'd been pistol whipped on the front step of 221B and spirited away with Sarah, and then later when he'd been thrown from the back of the giant known as Golem, it had finally broken and he'd unintentionally swallowed the piece while sliding across the stage. He was lucky it hadn't hurt.

But it wasn't something he thought had been noticeable. He could only see it himself when he opened his mouth very wide and pried back his cheek, but then, Sherlock's method of deduction barely stopped short of X-ray vision, so he supposed it shouldn't have been that much of a surprise.

John tongued the small defect in the same way he'd done habitually for the past three days and couldn't help but ask aloud, "how do you know it's chipped?" They were walking again.

"I located it when we were kissing just now." Sherlock said coolly, his face a smooth blade of composure as they made it out into the hall. And John snorted in disbelief. That's why he'd been so tenacious with his kissing. The bastard. 

There was always madness to Sherlock's methods.

"Sherlock! John? Damnit. Where /specifically/ are you running off to? You have to tell me. Fuck! I KNEW this was going to happen!" Lestrade was clutching the sides of his head in disbelief, tufts of silver hair spiking out through his fingers as he watched their backs recede. "I asked you to keep your bloody heads down! What the hell did I expect? Ah Jesus!"

"Did he say they were /kissing/?" Molly mewled, standing by Lestrade's shoulder looking pale. Her knuckles were tight around the clipboard she was about to snap in half and her face twisted into an ugly mix of jealousy and disbelief. 

Both of them fell into silence as they watched the two figures walk away.

//

The three foot long arowana slid methodically through the water, its large black eye watching everything as it circled the limits of its five hundred and seventy liter tank sitting resplendent in the middle of the waiting room. Giving patients a chance to admire it from all sides.

The fish's body was a mosaic of large red scales, which stopped at the broad curve of its gill flap. It's upturned jaw with its forked protrusions almost seemed to sip at the top of the water. Breaking the calm surface as it moved. 

John watched it make another casual loop around the hunk of gnarled driftwood and live swaying plants, took the last sip of his silty, tepid coffee, and binned it before reclaiming his seat next to Sherlock on the plush leather couch. The detective was practically vibrating, burning holes through the magazine he wasn't actually looking at as it rustled chaotically across his knees. 

They'd been invited to take a seat once they'd been checked in by the receptionist, having arrived precisely on time thanks to Sherlock's correct presumptions concerning traffic flow and the offer of an extra twenty pound note to push the speed limit.

However, Sherlock had clearly not anticipated them having made to wait once they'd arrived and as a result, the Consulting Detective was practically a live wire just waiting to make contact. 

Though it hadn't been said outright, John was pretty sure this was endgame. This was the man that all their work had culminated to. The killer responsible for pushing two innocent men to their deaths and harvesting their organs for profits. And he was just behind the door. 

When the door to the backroom opened, Sherlock went stiff as a post and John's throat went dry. For a second, the only sound in the room was the magazine sliding off Sherlock's lap and hitting the floor with a smack. But the dental assistant exiting simply tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and smiled cordially at them, walking right by to murmur quietly to the receptionist.

Sherlock slumped back into the couch, crossing his arms over his chest. His knees resuming their bounce.

John, eager to distract themselves, leaned over to whisper. "Did it never occur to you that I might like to know that you've made me an appointment with a serial killer Sherlock? I mean, for Christ's sake, he's going to have his hands in my mouth!"

Sherlock's eyes flicked back and forth from the door to the assistant's back. "Your tooth was chipped, it was the perfect opportunity."

"Oh, brilliant. So us ...snogging? That was, what? Just data gathering?" John couldn't help the sharp edge his whisper took, about to be incredibly cross should it turn out that Sherlock had been using him.

"Certainly not. You showed all the signs of wanting to be kissed so I obliged. I simply took advantage of the opportunity."

"Cheers. That makes me feel loads better." He remarked sarcastically.

Sherlock huffed. "Look. The only information I lacked was which tooth specifically it had happened to. Considering you've been conscientiously careful to chew your food on the right side of your mouth for the past three days; it would put the time of it occurring somewhere between our confrontation with the Golem and Moriarty abducting you from Baker Street. And as there was no evidence of physical violence to your face when I saw you at the pool; my intuition favors the former. It wasn't solely a fact finding endeavor and hardly the most logical way by which to procure the answer to the question I sought. It was merely a venture into solidifying our symbisism. Besides, there was substantial physical evidence to prove your enjoyment of it so I don't understand while you're contesting it now."

"Ah." John had the sudden thought as to what David Attenborough might have said in an effort to describe their courting ritual. 

Sherlock took his pause as though it were lingering unease, speaking more candidly. "I don't do anything I don't want to do John. You know this." He leaned back to match shoulders with John, pulling his phone from his pocket. "It was a comfortable moment between us and I acted accordingly. Isn't that what you're suppose to do?"

"Right. Well, all I know is that I would have liked to have known your plan much sooner than us being on our way here."

"I informed you as soon as I was able."

"When we were walking out the bloody door! That's hardly enough time to process it. Especially when it involves my well being."

"Oh do relax. We'll be doing nothing but benefiting from this. It's not as if he's going to off you while you're sitting in his chair. He's too smart for that."

"How do you know?"

Sherlock sighed irritably. "Think about it. He dispatches his victims during the night. He wouldn't do it here with witnesses. Certainly not in his place of business."

"Why not? The staff could be in on it with him..."

"John." Sherlock said warningly, alerting him to the fact that he was forging into idiot territory. 

"He works alone. Alright. I get it." He remembered Lestrade talking about the solitary figure leaving the train station on the CCTV. "So how do you know it's this particular dentist then? What narrowed it down for you?"

"This." Sherlock proudly produced the rolled up glove that John had seen him secrete earlier from his pocket, pinch the item he'd hid securely, and hold it up. John had to twist a bit, but eventually he saw it in the light. It was a single strand of hair the color of bright copper about ten centimetres long.

John huffed. "You do realize Lestrade's going to have a coronary once he finds out you absconded with evidence."

Sherlock tucked it back away carefully. "Unlikely. There are two more strands under the collar, I made sure. Telling them so was practically giving it to them on a silver platter. I estimate that it should give us about two hours' head start to interview the murderer before Gregson takes him into custody."

Somewhat comforted in the idea that they were in the right, John relaxed a bit. "So how do you know this guy's the one? Did you call up the Red-Headed League hotline or something? Ask for a dentist that fit the description?"

"Partially." Sherlock smirked. "While you were dithering about getting coffee orders I cross-referenced all dentists located between the places of death of both victims. Balance of probability being that he would not have strayed far from his familiar location. Only suspect to fit the description with such ostentatious hair and meet all other criteria was HIM." Sherlock held up his Blackberry, displaying the webpage of the very office who's waiting room they were currently sitting in. A Mr. Sterling Sipe DDS in a white dress shirt sporting a shock of vivid red hair was smiling kindly back at them. 

It was momentarily jarring to think that this was the man that had done what they'd seen. Putting a kind face to the wicked deeds.

"So how am I suppose to talk to him while he's doing his stuff?"

"I'll be in there with you."

John 's brow furrowed. "Oh. You will--"

But Sherlock was standing swiftly, shoving both phone and glove into his pocket as the dental assistant approached them. John rose quickly to match him. Putting out his hand. "Mr. Watson? Hi, my name is Ygritte. If you'd like to follow me to the back, Mr. Sipe will see you now."

Sherlock fell into a placating roll that was just enough not /him/ to be fake. His shoulders lowering and looseness coming about his spine. "Do you mind if I come along? My boyfriend doesn't like things about his face. Previous trauma I'm afraid."

John blinked in half alarm and half amazement, his neck a quick swivel to gape. How did...

The assistant held the door for them both. "Oh, absolutely. A calming influence is always welcome. And not to worry, Mr. Sipe's gentle as a lamb when he works. Although we do have the option of sedation dentistry if you should like."

"He would. That would suit him very well." Sherlock said for him and didn't break character even when John shot him a very concerned look. "That's why we chose you specifically for this, in fact."

The office they were led to was the typical sea foam green of a procedural room. Complete with a countertop, equipment storage, a small desk with a rolling chair, a tall, lush fern in the corner, and multiple framed posters of the human mouth stationed intermittently about to break up the monotony of the walls. John's chair faced out a large picture window, looking out over Chiswick High Road. 

"It's quite alright Mr. Watson. You'll be totally conscious the entire time, you just simply won't have a care in the world. If you'll take a seat here." John took off his coat and handed it to Sherlock before sitting in the offered dental chair, looking over the tray of equipment skeptically before Ygritte clipped a paper bib across his chest. "So it says here that we're fixing a chipped tooth? Your second premolar on the left side?"

"Uh, yes." John answered belatedly, reaching for an explanation. "Chipped it chewing on ice."

"Ouch." Ygritte was snapping on some gloves. "I'm just going to do a preliminary evaluation of the tooth, if I may?" She held up her hands to show her intentions and John reluctantly let her probe into his mouth. He comforted himself by watching Sherlock, who had taken a seat opposite him facing the shut door that they all three had come in through. 

Sherlock's eyes flashed around the room, taking everything in and when he met John's once more, he smiled like a viper. 

John heard the door open behind them, involuntarily tensing. Ygritte, oblivious to the true nature of what had caused him to startle, put a comforting hand on John's shoulder after removing her glove and gave it a squeeze of reassurance. Scribbling some things down onto a clipboard.

"Ah. Mr. Sipe." Sherlock said, rising from his chair before the assistant could even get a word out. "Pleasure to meet you."

"Yes. Hello." He shook Sherlock's proffered hand obligingly, before circling in front of John. "And hello to you, Dr. Watson. Always a pleasure to meet a colleague in the medical field."

Sterling Sipe was tall and trim, with broad shoulders and utilizing his ostentatious hair by complimenting it with a green shirt that peaked up over his white coat. His hand was large and confident around John's. His face completely open. He had a long and crooked nose that only enhanced the drama of his rough but gentle face and split the focus between two piercing blue eyes.

"Yes. We're BIG FANS of your work." Sherlock stepped closer to them, utilizing his uncomfortable proximity to make Dr. Sipe release John's handshake. They were both the same height, and John was witness to a crashing storm of beautifully intense gazes.

The dentist shifted as a practiced smile folded the skin around his eyes and he barked out a laugh. "Well great! I appreciate it."

"And...we appreciate you getting us in in such short notice." John fumbled to add, trying to act a part that he was actually not having to act at all.

"Absolutely. If you'll just give us a moment, Ygritte will catch me up on everything and we'll get started." And with that, he and Ygritte disappeared out the door to talk.

John turned back to Sherlock, who had an oddly serious look schooling his sharp features. As if he were trying to process what he'd just seen in the man. "What's wrong? Sherlock?" But Sherlock didn't answer.

In fact, Sherlock didn't say anything at all for a very long time, not even bothering to keep on with his boyfriend sham when they came back. Not while Dr. Sipe reviewed John's pertinent medical history, not while he took his blood pressure and pulse, not while he matched up John's tooth color with the available resins, not even while he asked him trivial things about his life that John had to make up on the fly. 

Sherlock's sea glass eyes were staring off into the middle distance, getting concerned glances from Dr. Sipe and Ygritte every time they crossed their path and John did his best to simply shrug and implored them to ignore him, that he did this sort of thing all the time. Which was certainly true, but this particular severance of the detective from reality was putting John on edge. 

They were in the presence of a murder suspect for Christ's sake! For all the times to shut down--

Sherlock finally stammered out of his rigid contemplation when John brought up a question while Ygritte was laying out all the necessary equipment on the tray next to John's seat.

"Are you going to be using Lorazepam?" 

Dr. Sipe smiled with all his ridiculously white teeth. "Oh, not to worry Dr. Watson. We won't need anything quite that extreme for a little thing like this. We'll just be using some nitrous oxide."

"He doesn't like things over his face." Sherlock blurted suddenly and all three people startled a bit at his brusque voice. As if it were the fern that had spoke.

"Oh." Dr. Sipe looked back to John from fishing through the drawer. "Well, of course. We have other methods of sedation--"

John fought down his surprise, before interrupting. "No, no. That's fine. I just don't prefer things over my mouth is all, but this is small enough."

"Excellent. It's just this little plastic bit that goes right over your nose, won't touch your mouth at all. Very minimal." He lifted a soft green cup that looked almost like a small muzzle, holding it out in front of his face to demonstrate where it would go.

"Anyway, I'll be high, so, it won't be so bad." John joked in hopes to ease the tension and glanced over at Sherlock, who was now staring a hole though the back of the dentist's head.

"Yes, indeed." Dr. Sipe agreed. "Ygritte, would you do the honours please?"

The assistant busied herself with hooking up the scavenging system to the nose piece and fiddling with some knobs on the walls and checking the gauges, then John's heart rate ticked up substantially when the small plastic cup settled down over his face. A wave of dizziness washed over him and the ceiling fuzzed out. She adjusted it a bit, asking him how it felt, but he felt too far away to answer.

He knew he shouldn't be reacting like this, but he couldn't help it. His breath quickened, his vision darkening, and the cold rush of pure oxygen burned its way into his lungs. 

But then a warm, solid hand slid across the top of his, and he realized two things; one, was that his hand was gripping the end of armrest like a claw, and two; that he had pinched his eyes shut. When he opened them, Sherlock was tilted over him very closely, becoming everything he saw. It was immediately disarming and his hand released its death hold on the chair.

The look of concern in Sherlock's eyes was only for him, he knew, encircled by the fall of dark curls. So its meaning John took to be genuine. A glance with those eyes and John was made aware of the sweat that had broken out across his forehead and top lip. "Are you alright John?"

He nodded fitfully, feeling like an idiot and let out a breath he hadn't been aware he'd been holding. Sherlock saw everything as it slid across his face and pressed his scarf against his throat to keep it in place as he reached down to take up the nose piece. "You're perfectly safe. I'm right here." And he enveloped John's mouth in a kiss.

John took a moment to find the muscles in his mouth to kiss back, then found himself comparing this kiss to the first they had shared. This one was so completely opposite to what had been done in the morgue that it may have well come from a completely different man. 

This one was soft and exterior, not probing or searching. Just calming. Comforting. /Grounding./ Exactly what John needed.

Dr. Sipe cleared his throat and broke them apart and Sherlock only fell back once he was assured John had been sufficiently calmed. His hand giving a reassuring squeeze before drifting back to the margins of John's awareness.

Beside him, the dentist put up his gloved fist to represent John's tooth. "Now doctor Watson, I'm just going to take you through some of the steps we're going to be doing: I'm going to clean and polish the tooth so it will give us a nice, strong surface to hold on to. The broken edge doesn't appear to need any trimming, so we'll skip that part and move straight on to applying a tooth conditioner. And after that, I'll be applying a bonding agent in multiple layers, in between which I'll be shaping the resin to replicate what's missing and curing it with this UV light to ensure a solid bond."

He held up the tools as he talked through the steps, allowing John a glimpse of each until he finally held up a wand to the back of it and a purple light flashed across it as he pulled the trigger.

"What's that?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

"The light?"

"No. That." Sherlock reiterated. "On your hand."

Dr. Sipe flashed the light once more and illuminated a glowing splotch underneath his glove as if he'd forgotten it was there at all. "Oh. It's just a stamp. Can't seem to get it to come off." 

While Sherlock feigned passing interest with a shrug, John could tell he was taking a mental photograph of it with his very particular squint before he returned to his seat and said nothing more. There was the sound of the door opening and closing and Dr. Sipe stretched the loops of his paper mask across his face. "Alright then, we're ready to begin if you're ready Dr. Watson? Good man. Let's begin." 

And with a nod, there was a metallic hiss, a rush of cool, heavy air, and John's body suddenly became heavy like lead and his brain obligingly floated away.

//

"Well, doctor Watson. I don't promote the eating of ice, but hopefully you'll be satisfied with the abilities of your new tooth." Dr. Sipe showed them back out and stopped short as they came to the back of the waiting room's door which seemed to be the perimeter of his territory. The man behind the curtain. 

He went to give John a handshake at the same time Sherlock was shoving his jacket at him and pushing the door wide, obviously in a very large rush to leave.

John couldn't help but tongue the new shape of his tooth in curiosity. It had looked perfectly natural in the hand mirror he'd been given once he'd sobered up and he remembered the approving flash of a smile Sherlock had flattered him with when he showed it off. The memory of that scrupulous stare focussed entirely upon his mouth was lingering electric. And it was almost enough to forget that he was currently shaking the hand of a man who was a cold-blooded murderer. Almost.

"The composite will function just like a normal tooth," Dr. Sipe was saying, "but if anything should happen; go ahead and give me a call. Otherwise, I'd like to see you back in two weeks just to make sure everything's worked out."

"Highly doubtful." Sherlock sneered as John finally zipped up his jacket and breached the doorway. "As you'll be incarcerated by then. Come along John. Quick as you can."

"I'm sorry?" John heard Dr. Sipe mutter perplexedly as the door swung shut in his face and they were bustling straight through the waiting room, past the gorgeously sad arowana still circling its extravagant tank without stopping.

John waffled for a moment before finding Sherlock outside on the kerb, waving down a cab. "Don't we need to pay?"

"I've already taken care of it. You're being too slow." Sherlock said with a look of distaste. "Come on. Come on!" John didn't know if the detective was refering to him or the incoming cab.

"What's gotten into you?" John asked.

"Blast!" Sherlock answered, just as a nondescript car parked itself right up against the back of their taxi. John only needed a moment to realize what was going on and why they were caught precisely where they had not wanted to be.

"I don't fucking believe it!" Came an infuriated cry from the car. "What the HELL are you two doing here?" Sergeant Sally Donovan threw the driver's side door open and stepped out with fury taut across her speckled face. Her wiry hair had been tamed back with a barrett, her jacket shining with her badge. It took little thought to know why she was here as another officer exited the vehicle from the passenger's seat.

"Ah, Sergeant. To what do we owe the pleasure?" Sherlock became the picture of ambivalence, sliding on his gloves.

"Don't play coy with me FREAK." Donovan spat as a couple carrying large shopping bags insinuated themselves shyly between them. John did his best to give them a placating but 'keep moving' smile to the husband. "You're not to come within one hundred meters of this investigation!"

"What investigation?" Sherlock feigned shock and ignorance with a tilt of his chin. "We're here getting a tooth fixed, Sergeant. Lestrade's not informed me of any investigation in which he needs our help. Although, you're /more/ than welcome to use my services if you wish as it's currently convenient. No? I didn't think so." Donovan's scowl only seemed to sharpen as he spoke, her muscles tight. "As a representative of the Met, I would assume it to be in bad practice to bandy about accusations to casual acquaintances you meet on the street? You're tone could soon be considered harassment." He held up a finger at the cabbie's imploring cough and ignored the mumble of starting the meter.

She seemed to be fighting the immediate words in her head from coming out and presumably chose the second best thing she thought of. "I should haul you both in for obstruction of justice!"

"Obstructing what? Where's your evidence? Did you know we were obstructing something John? We can get out of the way of the door, if that's what you're implying."

"By all means." John play-acted easily and stepped aside. The sting of her nickname for Sherlock seemed to linger longer and more harshly now than it had when she'd last dropped it casually at NSY when they'd been concerning themselves with the pips. Was it the change in their dynamic? Or the tanacity with which she said it? A LOT had changed in such a short time after all.

Donovan looked to John as if he should know better than to take a supporting role as opposed to a wallflower. She issued a harsh breath of disbelief. "And /you/. You haven't learned your lesson at all, have you? You're just happy as a clam to run around after 'im 'til he gets you blown up, aren't you?!" Her face was in a snarl, but her eyes were two desperately imploring black pools. It was clear then that she'd found out about the bomb vest, or if she hadn't, it'd been a damn good guess. "You're just waiting for the time when he pushes it - pushes YOU - too far, is that it? Hanging on for the day when someone like me says 'I told you so' even if, by then, it's too late for you to hear them?"

While he'd always taken the time to acknowledge what she said, if only to disregard her, right now he felt inclined to ignore her outright. But he didn't. "I suppose I am." John felt his mouth saying instead. Finally giving her a solid decision on the matter. In any storm, he'd already decided, his compass always pointed towards Sherlock.

With that, her locked arms slid from her chest and with a small, disappointed nod, the statement seemed to unravel her constant assault from the very core of her. He watched the concern wash from her face, resigning herself to the fact that she could not save him. That he did not WANT to be saved. And place him as the lost cause he was.

Sherlock sighed heavily beside him, bored witless. "Meter's running, Sergeant Donovan. May we leave now that the inquisition's over or is it your WANT to be harrassing us into being obstructs into you purported pursuit of 'justice'? Authoritative coersion seems to be one less thing you need to add to your already /brimming/ schedule." His tone was flat and humourless, amalgamating everything he had said. He wanted to go home, his eyes as hard as marbles.

She looked to her subordinate, who had said nothing throughout the whole proceeding, and she looked utterly disappointed. John assumed she wished to be looking to Lestrade, her favored DI, or even Anderson, for a defending word, and not just a faceless officer to help her if the arrest got difficult. But she got nothing in return.

"Fine." She said quietly, washing her hands of it all. "What do I care?"

Ever the peacekeeper, John took three steps back and opened the door wide for her, pinning her eyes with a look that he hoped conveyed his want for her to trust him as much as she'd been trying to get him to trust in her. /I'm as safe as I choose to be, Sally. Everything's fine. I don't need minding./

But she was really, truly done with him and she had no more voice to give as she and the officer walked right on through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> think what you will, but I believe Sally really does have John's best interests at heart. even if she doesn't go about it the right way and doesn't understand at all what they are. human error.


	6. The Adventures of the Indefatigable Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some things get explained. some things don't. poor John is at the mercy of yet another deduction and Mrs. Hudson makes another appearance.
> 
> enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome back! took me damn long enough, eh? all I keep thinking as I write this story and remember that I need to pick up loose threads i've made in previous chapters is that there're 'two tons of shit in this one ton story', but i'm pretty confident it all gets figured out in the end.
> 
> enjoy!

"Well, that was anticlimactic." John sighed as they entered 221B, stripping off his gloves. "I'm sorry it didn't--" but Sherlock went stomping by him and wasted no time in heading straight back into his bedroom, giving the door a slam in his wake. His Belstaff and scarf were in a pile on the floor, spread as if flung violently from his body.

"Right." John sighed again, preparing himself for what was about to consume his life for the foreseeable future and gathered them up to hang. His first impulse was to go put the kettle on, but the urge to let himself settle took priority. So he stood and let the ambiance of 221B do its magic. 

He scratched the back of his neck and wondered what they would do now. Maybe he'd get lucky and Sherlock would spend the majority of his time sulking in his room until another case cropped up. John was loath to admit it, but perhaps it'd do them both a favor. 

Oh. Then again maybe not. He'd forgotten his own room was currently occupied.

He was unshouldering his coat when Sherlock came stomping back out, barefoot, dressed down in his pajamas and dressing gown and took up a foetal position with a massive thump on the couch. "Bedroom's yours," he muttered petulantly, before slamming his fist into the Union Jack pillow for good measure and burrowing down into the mashed leather. 

The whole display was highly theatrical and would have made John laugh, if he wasn't afraid to have the black mood turned upon himself.

John had the sudden and slightly bewildering urge to go pat that inky head, tell him it would be fine. He took a step towards him even to do such, but stopped short. Would that be crossing the line? Was casual consolation of his flatmate going too far? They've kissed, yes. But Sherlock had asked and John had acquiesced and then that second time had been...well...under duress. He licked his lips.

"Haven't you something more useful to do than /loom/?" Sherlock asked darkly, startling John from his musings and into the very idea that he could actually do such a thing.

John gave his tooth another lave, rolling his eyes at Sherlock's back. "Yes, in fact..." he looked about to explain his idle standing and his eyes fell upon the stack of records on the floor in the corner. It was a project he'd always had tucked away for doing and now seemed a good a time as any. The day was yet young. "I'll just sort these."

Sherlock arsed himself enough to tip his head back to see what John was talking about, then gave a dismissive grunt and curled back up. Dull.

John fingered through them initially, wanting to get an idea of where he might start and furrowed his brow. The stack was a confusion of music; orchestral albums were shuffled in with classic rock, oldies with compositional symphonies, opera with ...heavy metal? "Sherlock? Are these all yours?"

"Leave it and go." Sherlock muttered and John was taken aback a bit - though not wholly surprised - at the rudeness of the reply, but then realized there was someone coming up the stairs.

"Hoo hoo. Thought I'd recognized that racket." Mrs. Hudson called on her approach, huffing slightly and smiling warmly as she crested their floor. "Looks like you boys have had a long morning, so I thought I'd just pop up for a quick visit while you're here."

She held up a full mesh bag that she'd lugged up the stairs. "Don't expect this all the time now; but I've brought you your laundry back, as a thank you for buying my shopping yesterday. I just took up anything on the floor I could find in addition to the baskets, hope you don't mind."

"That was very kind of you." John scrambled to take the bag from her, not at all comfortable with the idea that she'd touched his pants. "You really didn't have to..."

"Oh, it's fine, love. Just fine. Although that jumper you spilled tea on's got to hang over my bath for a bit longer dear. It's still damp. I'll bring it up later when it's all nice and dry. And Sherlock, I've sent your suits off to the cleaners, and the rest of your unmentionables are in here with John's. I didn't know if you two shared a dresser yet, but I folded them together anyway."

Sherlock just made a nondescript noise.

"He means thank you," John corrected him, repeating himself. "You really didn't have to do any of this Mrs. Hudson."

"Oh, no no no, stop fussing." She patted his hand. "It gives an old woman something to do while you boys are out running about London with your cases. Can't have you going about totally starkers now can I? Oh! But there is one thing; I have these, they came out of your pocket. I'm afraid I didn't get to them until after the wash cycle though. I hope they're not ruined." She deposited three .22 caliber bullets into John's unoccupied hand.

"Oh, nice Sherlock. You could have ruined the machines." John chided.

"No dear, they're from /your/ trousers." Mrs. Hudson said to John, "I usually make a habit of checking your pockets before I throw them in, but they must have slipped by me this time. Ah well. They've been on my drainage board all afternoon. Hopefully they're still shootable..."

John accepted them with embarrassment, realizing they came from when he'd disarmed Sherlock in an effort to keep the walls intact. "Oh...um, thanks. Sorry about that."

"Not to worry love, but I did want to speak with you about something else; I know we didn't discuss a contract before you moved in. But I would have thought maybe Sherlock would have told you. Well anyway, I have a strict no pet policy John. I'll need that beast out of here quick as you can."

"Pet policy? Oh, you mean the, uh--" he gestured upstairs. "It's only temporary Mrs. Hudson. For a case. Trust me, I don't want it here anymore than you."

She considered this for a moment, looking at Sherlock's back and deciding it was probably true. "Alright. Just so long as it makes its way OUT of the flat soon, I'd appreciate it. Lord knows it's the least foul thing I've had in here, though it certainly holds the distinction of being the first /live/ animal that's been dragged in here. Such awful creatures. I remember my best friend Margaret had a budgie when we were girls and it made the most OBNOXIOUS--" She suddenly noticed the stack of vinyls. "What are you doing with all these then?"

"Oh. I thought I'd try to organize them...if I can." John admitted, scratching his eyebrow. "But uh, there's not really a clear place to start. I wouldn't have thought Sherlock listened to so much variety, but there's quite a collection. There's even a lot of first pressings from what I can tell."

"I had wondered where they'd wandered off to!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed.

"They're yours?"

"Oh, yes! Any of the non-orchestral ones; those ones are Sherlock's." She raised her hand and dropped her voice into a good natured stage whisper with a wink. "Good for nodding off to, but not my usual cup of tea. I prefer the newer stuff." She stared at them adoringly as if they were children she hadn't seen for a long while. "Oh, I bought these back in Florida. Frank loved them. We use to sit on the floor and listen to them for hours. I remember we had a whole wall of them." She smiled nostalgically. "These are the only ones that came back with me after he was executed." 

She noticed one in particular and picked it up, admiring it with glassy eyes. It had a crude drawing of cycloptic monsters playing guitars in garish, thick lines. John recognized it as The Red Hot Chili Peppers' eponymous debut. "This band here, we saw them in concert, they were absolutely lovely back in the 80's. Frank got us tickets for my birthday. 

"I remember very clearly, it was at the London Victory Club in Tampa." She giggled. "Oo! And you wouldn't believe it, their guitarist, that one with the silly name, he was having a brilliant time on his guitar, playing away! And apparently he needed the loo, so instead of waiting for a break, he just did his business, RIGHT THERE in a cup onstage! Oh! It was so naughty!" She fanned herself in exasperation and giggled. "Just imagine, naming yourself after a bug. We had quite a time."

John laughed in astonishment, but Sherlock wasn't interested. "Yes, thank you for such thrilling history of things that don't matter. Off you go. Take your reminiscing downstairs." His dark voice rolled like thunder.

"We're just having a chat." John warned.

"Then go join her DOWNSTAIRS. I can't have you two prattling on ad nauseam while I'm trying to think."

"Sherlock." John said harshly, unwilling to budge. "You're having a strop, not thinking. Be nice."

Mrs. Hudson's voice was soft. "Oh. I don't mind dear. He's all bark and no bite." She gathered the small pile of vinyls John had discarded on the tower of magazines and went through them briskly, her eyes lighting up excitedly. "This one John, this one's one of my favorites. You take a listen, soon as you can. I want to hear what you think of it. I'd like to borrow it back when you're finished though. I haven't heard this one for ages."

She held it up for him to look over. It was a black and white sleeve with a picture of the Hindenburg going down in hydrogen-fueled flames: Led Zeppelin's first album.

Mrs. Hudson smiled kindly, setting it down on top, then held up a finger and dug into her deep house coat pocket. "Oo! Almost forgot! Here's that baby food you asked about Sherlock. You didn't specify on a flavor, so I got you corn puree and oh, what's this," she squinted hard at the label on a jar that looked ambiguously purple, "spaghetti. Hope that'll do."

"Baby food? For what?" John took the little jars from her perplexed.

"Yes. Thank you." Sherlock finally snapped upright from the couch, moving to usher her out the door physically, to both John and Mrs. Hudson's surprise. "You've concluded your business. Go. Please. Now." And shut the door behind her retreating form as she bid them goodnight.

"You could be more appreciative. The woman did just do our laundry." John snapped, throwing both baby food jars at him, which Sherlock caught succinctly without looking and dropped them onto the table.

"I am. And I was." Sherlock defended, resuming his curled up position upon the couch.

"You could have at least made an /attempt/ at nice."

"That /was/ me being nice." Sherlock grumbled.

"Unfortunately, I think it was." John admitted. 

After that, the flat fell into silence. John stood in place for a long while, far enough away it seemed not to disturb Sherlock's pout and resumed his previous position of staring at the head the world's stroppyist Consulting Detective. 

He found his eyes tracking slowly. Following down the shape of him and the way the silk dressing gown gave away his intimate structure.

Beginning on Sherlock's riotous mess of perfectly laid curls, the ones that crowned the wing-like blades of his sharp, hunched shoulders, which in turn, rose delicately out from the smooth plain of his elongated back, terminating into the apple shape of his buttocks and wondered how the hell he'd gotten to this moment in time. In this place. With /this/ man.

Perhaps he was lucky. Or perhaps he was being punished.

He was caught out eventually as he stared for far too long at the narrow white crescents of Sherlock's wrinkled feet, pondering the peculiar way they were crisscrossed over one another as though he'd been trying to warm them. The long gnarled toes curled against the ball pads and then released. It was simultaneously beautiful and ugly. Much like Sherlock. 

"What?"

"Uh, nothing." John startled, suddenly needing to be in action. "I just thought I'd make a fire then a grilled toasty for lunch. Fancy a cheese and tomato?" He stooped at the hearth and set to work, pointedly not returning Sherlock's interested gaze as he barrel rolled to face him.

"You're not suppose to eat for another hour post procedure." Sherlock warned him.

"I know." Once the fire caught, John disappeared into the kitchen. "I'm not making it for me. You'll feel better once you eat. Your blood sugar's probably crashing."

He didn't wait for the response as he threw a pan on the hob and tried to ignore the racing thumps in his chest. It was only until he emerged to get Sherlock's attention with greasy spatula in hand, that John found Sherlock sitting on the floor by the front door, his gown a silken pool around him. 

There was a stack of records to his left and a lesser stack to his right. "There. They're properly sorted now." Sherlock pointed to the small stack. "These are the good ones," and then to the large stack he waved his hand as if at a stench. "These are rubbish." 

John wandered over to see, "you mean /yours/ are the only good ones?" He was a little annoyed that Sherlock had taken his project away, but he guessed it was better than having the madman sulk.

"Naturally. I've arranged them in the appropriate order in which you should listen to them. Starting now." At the top was an album that was half silver and half the painted picture of a tree. After a moment, John realized the words were in Italian and German: 'Donizetti L'elisir D'amore', is what he presumed to be the title, describing something concerning love and was accompanied with a boastful: 'Gesamtaufnahme Aufführungsmitschnitt!' underneath, which he couldn't decipher at all. Sherlock plucked it from his fingers and lifted the needle on the player.

John huffed a laugh out at Sherlock's persistence. "Well ta. You can eat while we listen. Come on." He made back towards the kitchen.

Sherlock took a seat in front of the plate of food, to which John made sure be more fully captivating by setting down a steeping cup of tea next to it and prompted idle talk of 'the Work'. "So? Got any theories on why Gregson didn't come with Donovan to pick up Sipe? I would have thought he'd want to bring his man in himself." 

Sherlock sniffed the sandwich, looking it over with an appraising eye, before taking a large bite right from the middle. Bread crunching greasily. "Most likely, he's too busy getting ready to have a news conference. He's leaving booking procedure to Donovan so that he can focus on writing a public statement. If he's anything like he was before, he won't allow anyone else to write his words for him, he'll keep Sipe behind bars overnight tonight to soften him up for questioning in the morning, which will give him enough time to contact BBC to inform them of his great accomplishment."

"A live news conference? You think he'd make it that big of a deal?" 

Sherlock hummed agreeably and took another bite. "Oh most definitely. You heard what Lestrade said: I battered his career by solving the Carl Powers' case. He'll do something ostentatious to try and save face."

"Makes sense I guess. Might be interesting to watch since we've nothing on tomorrow." John agreed, looking out into the living room and hearing the bright harmony of foreign opera. It was nice. "It's kind of a shame though, how nice Dr. Sipe was. Definitely not your run-of-the-mill psychopaths." John scratched his eyebrow. "Threw me for a loop."

It was still quite surreal to know that the man who'd just done a bang up job on John's tooth was languishing in a cell right now. About to have the book thrown at him for his unspeakable misdeeds.

John's wandering eyes fell upon the strange rock he'd been gifted yesterday and was reminded that he'd totally forgotten about it. It seemed to have migrated onto the mantle piece sometime in their absence, taking residence near Billy the skull. It was no large task to imagine that Mrs. Hudson must have been unable to resist the urge to tidy while she had commandeered their laundry. "Well, anyway, on a completely different note; I never thanked you for the um...the rock. So thanks...for that." He turned back. "Why a rock?"

Sherlock cocked his head coyly, polishing off the sandwich and said nothing. With his plush, pink lips glistening with grease and his gown sliding off one sharp shoulder, Sherlock looked nonchalantly wanton. And John was immediately struck with that unassailable feeling that took him at random moments; where he couldn't tear his eyes away.

"You said it represented me? In some way?"

"I did indeed." A mischievous grin peeled its way across his face as Sherlock sucked the grease off long, thin fingers one by tantalizing one. John had to swallow down the baying voice inside him that wanted to offer to take care of that for him. And not with a napkin.

"A rock? That represents me?" Another intransigent head tip came from the toying detective as his thumb left his lips with a soft pop. "Oookay. I don't even get a clue, do I?"

"Oh. You're marginally intelligent John. I'm sure you'll suss it out." He accentuated the 'S's until the word became nothing more than a patronizing hiss. "Given enough time."

"Right." John fidgeted in his lean against the counter, shifting his hardening prick away from the thick material of his zip before it became uncomfortably trapped.

He caught Sherlock's lambent eyes lingering on his pelvis and in an embarrassed fit John swiped his hand across the lap of his jeans as though maybe Sherlock had noticed that there was something on it, instead of very obviously /in/ it. 

His cock twitched in appreciation and the warmth in his loins burned brighter in anticipation. That hadn't helped at all.

"Would you like me to fellate you John?" Sherlock asked suddenly. His face made of chiseled stone.

John's surprise resulted in a sharp bark to his voice. "Wh-what?! Now? We're in the kitchen."

"Hmm. Yes indeed, we are." Sherlock made a show of looking about to verify, before folding his arms across his chest and tipping his chair onto its back two legs. "We could move the proceedings to my bedroom if you'd prefer. My knees would certainly thank you."

"You're joking right?" John swallowed hard and reread the smirk that sparkled in Sherlock's eye, seeing what was there. "You're having me on."

Sherlock hummed in agreement, grinning like a cheshire. "Only partially. It is beneficial to learn that you are just as responsive to visual stimuli as you are to the physical. Studies suggest buildup of anticipation to the reward yields the best benefits. But the rules stated previously about sex during cases is still ongoing."

"But the killer's been caught." John found himself protesting, then immediately reprimanding himself.

"Allegedly." Sherlock seemed undaunted by John's inner struggle. "There wasn't visual confirmation made by either you or I as to his arrest, so in all actuality, neither of us can substantiate that the case has been solved as of yet. And besides, I still need to further monitor your reactions to familiarize myself with your personal triggers for sexual arousal." 

"You could just ask."

"Not my style." Sherlock replied coolly.

John snorted, though he was frankly relieved that things hadn't reached terminal velocity right then and there. "Right. Well, whatever I can do to oblige Professor Cocktease in his scientific endeavors." John only half joked with a mock bow, turning to the sink to get himself a glass of water and two blessed minutes to cool down without Sherlock's lithe form in his periphery. Jesus Christ how did Sherlock manage to get him worked up so quickly? They still had things to talk about.

A phone beeped during a musical lull from the sitting room and he heard Sherlock rise to fetch it.

When he returned, John had reclaimed himself. "So, if it's all the same then. I'd like to talk about this ...arrangement? I guess. Whatever it is we're calling it."

"It needs to have a name?"

"Well, I just--how would you describe it?"

Sherlock's eyes pinched into serious thought. "We were living together previously, now we've incorporated sex into the arrangement. What sort of title does that create?"

"Friends with benefits?" John ventured, to which Sherlock scowled. "Or not..."

"Would 'lovers' be an appropriate description?"

"Um, well, yes. If it goes well and we choose to keep sleeping with each other." The term 'lover' squeezed something hard in John's chest.

He'd had his share flings, one night stands, relationships that fizzled, marital prospects that ceased before commitment. The numbers were less than people usually thought, but he let them think whatever. Once he'd been given the nickname 'Three Continents Watson', there was little he could do to dissuade it. 

But the only time there'd ever been the want of having a lover, had been in a time and place that made it impossible.

The problem with this time, was that it had the chance of being REAL.

John couldn't help but let himself fantasize briefly about what it meant to hold that distinction. It hinted to the dangerous possibility of waking up in a shared bed to a fuzzy-edged morning to a dark and messy head peeking out from beneath the duvet beside him. Their skin tight from shared emissions from the night previous. Consecrating themselves together through light, insistent kissing despite shared dragon breath. It spoke of panting into each other's mouths. Laced fingers during a slow fuck. Coming twice and whispering nothings. Interspersed with everythings.

John cleared his throat and looked away.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and smirked as though he'd seen inside his head. "In what capacity could it not go well?"

John opened his mouth to back pedal, but was overcome.

"So why did you never consider hiring a prostitute?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

At that, John's imagination shattered into dust. "Excuse me?"

"To take care of the," he flapped his hand ambiguously, "copulation...problem you had previous to this. It seems to me that that would have been the most logical approach outside masturbation. Of course, not /right/ after your hospitalization, it would have had to have been post your physiotherapy sessions, being left-hand dominant. Obviously."

John only had a chance to frown. 

"Come on. It had to have crossed your mind at some point. I assume you would have had some experience while on leave to visit brothels in the area during your tours." 

"Jesus. That's not--" John tried.

"I can also understand the drawbacks to such situations now that you're back here, as well. I imagine full nudity for you is a rather vulnerable thing to share with another person, especially a stranger. You've taken great care in keeping yourself fully dressed from neck to wrist to ankle even in MY presence and I've lived with you now for approximately three months.

"You're a fit man, which you supplement with your pension for a more form fitting wardrobe. So it's surely not an act of modesty that you would cover yourself so completely. You consider your aesthetic to be one of your defining features, so to even entertain the possibility that you amour-propre would be at all infringed upon by your clothing choices simply wouldn't suit your character. 

"I've considered then, that another variable to your possible timidity was /me/, but that didn't make any sense either because, by now, you should know that nudity is no great shock to me, nor what the human body is able to endure. If it was that your diffidence hinged upon your physical body, which might possibly still be true, you're mistaken, as I've seen hundreds of naked bodies and thousands of scars in my line of work. Yours would be no different.

"Thusly, I considered that the issue was even more deeply engrained than that. One which was on a subconscious level. Which seems to be the most likely reason so far. 

"I've come to the conclusion that you wear your jumpers like they're your armour. They protect you in a sense. Protect your body and therefore your TRUE self from the outside world, but you haven't always done so, and that's what I found truly fascinating.

"Surely, you can't have kept yourself clothed for the entirety of your adult life, that's ridiculous. You've spent the majority of your days in the military after all, and I've heard the rumors of what those soldiers get up to."

A surprised snort broke John's resolve and Sherlock's sea glass eyes turned to a look of perplexity, but appeared not at all dissuaded.

"When you unconsciously allowed me to see you shirtless, there was clear evidence that you had spent a large amount of time with your torso exposed in Afghanistan. You've lost your true tan, but you still retain enough of a tone difference to show that you had, in fact, been shirtless multiple times during your three tours. So the choice to remain clothed presently has to have been made /after/ you were released from your extended stay in hospital.

"Being shot is certainly a life altering thing. But for you, John, it was worse. Much worse. To be specifically shot in such a place as to put an end to everything in your life that you had worked for. Effectively negating the pursuit of your military and medical careers simultaneously. It /killed you/, metaphorically and almost physically. You came back to London a broken man. Absolutely wrecked. After all, you couldn't even stand on your own two feet properly. 

"So you choose not to expose yourself willingly because when I met you that day at Bart's lab you were so ashamed of the man you had become, didn't even /recognize/ him, that you could not bear it. You did not know who you were anymore, what you were capable of, and to unclothe you would expose this truth and lay you bare in every sense of the word. Correct?"

John stood stunned for a long while. Sherlock's eyes raking his face for confirmation. 

"Huh." Was all John could manage. He was flayed, absolutely truly exposed clear down to a feeling akin to having had his /bones/ opened up to have his marrow be read by a soothsayer. 

But instead of feeling awful, pinned down, John felt a bit of a lift on the weight upon his shoulders. It explained the choices he had not even been aware he was making. Putting a reason to the whys of his morning ritual. His willingness to advertise himself through his clothes while he kept his naked truths all hidden. Strong and broken.

And this man sitting across from him had declared all that just by observation. By watching. One look to truly /see/.

"Well?" Sherlock asked impatiently, if not a little worriedly, when he was met with silence. "John?"

"Yes. Yes, you're absolutely bloody right. Jesus." John stumbled. A shudder went through left hand and he tucked it between the counter and his bum. "I suppose I just have never thought of it in that way."

"What? That you believe yourself to be a simulacrum of your previous self?"

"In a way." John slid his half-full glass onto the counter, letting the full understanding settle into his dignity. "Makes me sound like a bit of a coward doesn't it?"

Sherlock shot upright at that, on his feet before the front legs of the chair could clatter down and he was pressed nose-to-nose with the doctor, practically bending him backwards against the countertop. "Do not mince my words, John Watson." Sherlock warned him. "You are the least cowardly person I have ever met. And it would not do you well to believe otherwise."

John swallowed audibly.

With their eyes locked, Sherlock poured such tenacity into his gaze that John could only meet it equally with acceptance and nodded his head in understanding.

It was finally Sherlock who subsided first, leaning back on his heels but not moving away. A new appreciation of understanding between them. "So. Is that something you would be amenable to then? Exposing yourself to me?"

John took a moment to get his thoughts in order. "I have the feeling that knowing how you work Sherlock. I haven't ever had much of a choice." He gave a soft smile and raised his chin up in offering. Sherlock dropped his gaze to John's lips, raised them to John's eyes, then bent down slowly to taste them.

John opened instantly beneath the wet heat, drawing Sherlock in to drink more deeply from his mouth. Inviting him into the possibilities that they may share soon and let Sherlock explore as he chose. He went for the open corners, the margins of his jawbone, the hot air above his tongue. 

Deeply drawn breaths made their kissing grow heavier. Lips harder. Mouths moving together and apart to try and catch each other shifting. A soft bite. A shudder and a hiss. A thick flame of curling heat that struck low in the belly.

Sherlock reached up with quick hands and took both sides of John's head, long palms sliding to cradle the back of his skull, which John was coming to learn to be Sherlock's preferred position. Idle hands were the devil's playthings. After all.

John groaned as Sherlock slid his body closer, bare feet bracketing shoes, sharp bones pushing against firm muscle pushing against hard counter. John's erection slotted neatly into the space between Sherlock's strong thighs and caused him to tremble when Sherlock began to grind subtly against him with upward inflections. 

It had been so long since he'd been touched like this. Full body contact. It was /glorious/.

John couldn't help the grunt that billowed up out of his throat, his nostrils flaring hot across Sherlock's cheekbone as a particularly well-placed rub chafed his cock against denim.

Sherlock's long fingers were threaded through John's hair, thumbs slung beneath his ears, moving John as if by his axis and the sheer submission required with it, enhanced by the touch memory from before, was enough to make John's knees soften beneath him. But when John tried to put his hands on Sherlock's hips for support, he found his left hand trapped behind him and a blood-deprived tug sent a shock through his shoulder. 

He bit off a cry and Sherlock broke away panting. "No sex, John."

"Right. Jesus Christ. You told me that." John replied huskily, panting as well. He leaned up from the counter and observed the harsh red line the corner of the counter had pressed across his palm. The shock from warm to cold as Sherlock stepped back was enough to break whatever spell had come over them.

When he looked up, Sherlock was walking away. The iron curtain of his indifference had been raised once again, crashing down between them in an effort in protection, but for whom it was unclear. 

Were it not for the bodily evidence, John couldn't have proven that that moment had just happened at all. 

"I never got the chance to ask. How was my brother's monthly abduction of you?" Sherlock asked. "Did you learn anything of significance?" He resumed his seat and removed the sachet from his overly- steeped tea adding sugar and frowning at the lack of milk, before deciding to give it up for lost.

"Give me a minute, yeah?" John begged, shaking out his hand and unable to throw that little niggle of confusion at the fact that Sherlock was over what had just happened betwixt them so easily. 

A quick glance to Sherlock's lap revealed smooth fabric that would have immediately shown any sort of arousal. Its formless plain made his stomach twist. 

John turned to drink his water before Sherlock could look up and misconstrue the look on his face.

He spoke when he was able, turning only his head over his shoulder, playing along. "Besides that Mycroft's more cloak and daggers than a bloody Bond film villain, no. He, um, just came by to drop off that folder you wanted to get me. Wherever it got to. You do understand that I really didn't require a spreadsheet though, right?"

"I assumed with you being a medical man you would appreciate full disclosure."

"Not really. Nice of you though." John shrugged with his back turned, more focused on willing his erection down.

"Judging by the thickness of it, Mycroft no doubt included the whole of my medical history in it. Why haven't you read it?" He looked truly concerned at this point.

"Been a bit busy lately, what with case you just solved and all. You can't tell me you've already deleted it." John said, trying to break his own tension, finally able to turn. "It's only been a half hour."

"Read it now." Came the challenge.

"I don't want to read it now."

"Why not? It might be interesting. Don't you want to know what makes me tick? You have to be tempted. True knowledge right at your fingertips. Sherlock Holmes fleshed out for your perusal. If our positions were reversed...well, a full dossier would just ice the cake." There was the tiniest note of bitterness to the words that swelled of smugness. Willing John to take the bait. The snake offering the apple.

But John only sighed and scrubbed his hand down his face as if in reset. This had always been and was always going to be his decision: "I'm not going to read it because it's none of my business, Sherlock. I didn't ask for it. And when or /if/ any of it becomes my business, I'm sure you'll let me know. I don't need a bloody folder to know who you are or why you are what you are. You are you. And no amount of paperwork is going to make or break my opinion about you."

Sherlock hummed in appreciation.

"Now where is that damn thing?" John went out in the living room and found it stacked nicely with the newspapers, undoubtedly the work of Mrs. Hudson once again. "There's only ever been the one thing I needed to know," he said as he made his way back towards the kitchen, "are you clean?"

Sherlock regarded him for a very long moment. "Sparkling."

"Good." John said, satisfied, and the folder fell with a thunk into the fire.

John watched the folder singe and curl and finally combust into a small, gasping conflagration. The papers inside blackening before turning to dust. Some little flakes escaped the boundary of the grates and drifted softly to the floor. Putting an end to the matter. 

Something John didn't see passed over Sherlock's face at that token of trust. A feeling not allowed to stay and when John turned back he found his phone practically shoved beneath his nose. "Work has texted you. Apparently it's urgent."

John's thoughts immediately realigned themselves. "Damnit Sherlock." And he snatched the phone away, reading the message before dialing. He stepped out into the sitting room to take it and came back when he was done. "Dr. Banerjee's had a family emergency and Sarah's asked me to come in to cover for him this afternoon. I told her I would. You don't mind, do you?" He said somewhat apologetically, looking at his watch. Space between them would do them both well. "Which means I've got about a fifteen minutes to get to the train."

"Yes. Good. Fine." Sherlock replied disinterestedly and rose, gliding back into the sitting room. He pursed his lips and turned off the record player where it had been lulling in a scene change. 

He put a hand over his eyes as he resumed his place on the couch, tucking his gown around him with the other and pointedly ignored John's disappearance into the bathroom.

"Need anything before I go?" John asked when he came back out.

"No. Yes!" Sherlock lobbed one of the jars of baby food at John, which he bobbled before finally catching. "Feed the Sebastopol."

"What's a Sebastop-- oh no! The goose? I'm not going in there, that thing's evil! If you remember, it tried to attack me."

"Hardly." Sherlock snorted derisively. "You merely startled it before. Approach calmly this time and you won't have a problem."

John's motionlessness spurred Sherlock to explain further with an exasperated sigh. "You have my word that it's well acclimated to people, John. It came from a family farm to be sold at the Covent Garden Market for Christmas. It needs fed. Before you run off and abandon me."

The hot and cold of his emotions did not entreat John. "Uh huh. And why am I feeding /baby food/ to a goose? Am I encouraging it to shit even more all over my room? Got some experiment on involving goose droppings that I haven't learned about yet?" His tone veered into sarcasm.

Sherlock removed his hand only long enough to shoot John a withering look, as if what John had just described was something totally beneath his scientific endeavors. He took a large breath to signify he was about to treat John to a thorough lecture and began. "The stomach of all species of Avialae are divided into two pouches, John. If you'd paid attention to ANY nature program we've watched, you'd know this. 

"The gizzard is the second pouch, which is necessary for those birds that eat seeds to have in order to break up the food into smaller bits so that they can be more easily digested. For those that have not developed this muscle, such as in the case of the organically fed Sebastopol which is given a herbivorous diet in order to enhance the taste of its musculature, it becomes necessary for the bird to take up small stones to use in its place.

"Is there a point you're getting to?" John asked, pinning a hand to his hip.

Sherlock didn't deign to look at him, merely addressing the ceiling instead. "The /point/ is that the Oakshot sisters who currently own the farm and the stall by which the goose was to be sold also brought along with them a very special, very /expensive/ precious crystal opal solid in the raw that they had appraised while they were in town." He paused to allow John the chance to come to the grand conclusion, though it was for naught.

"Oookay." John just added dumbly, still not getting it.

"The POINT is that the opal was an heirloom passed down from their recently deceased great grandmother, which was mined by their great great great great grandfather from his personal mine in Andamooka Australia and was valued just that day at approximately thirty one carats by a gem dealer, which is equivalent in today's market at being sold at £4ooo."

John hummed an agreement to encourage him to continue.

"Unfortunately for the Oakshot sisters, they dropped said opal during transit, which was immediately eaten by one of the geese. And also unfortunately for them, they did not see which goose /specifically/ ate it."

"But you figured it out?"

"Of course I did." Sherlock said smugly. "It was the one with the bar on its tail."

"And the baby food...?"

"Facilitates regurgitation. Now go upstairs and check the floor for opals. You've only seven minutes to catch the train." He dropped his hand back over his face like a queen dismissing a servant.

John blinked and looked at his watch, amazed that that had just wasted twenty minutes. "Damnit!" With jar in hand he raced up the stairs remembering to check himself at the top and approach slowly.

In everything he found. There was no opal.

//

The radio was turned down low. Advertisements burbling nonsensically as John finished up his patients' notes in the quiet sanctuary of his office. Nothing but the calm scribble of indelible words and the intermittent hum of the heater coming on.

His covering shift had lasted longer than he had expected, for which he was grateful. More people to see than he'd anticipated meant more work to keep his mind busy.

He hadn't realized just how long he'd been working until he'd ushered his last limping patient out the door and reassured Sarah he'd lock the place up. A cursory glance towards the outside windows had shown the London sky beginning to bruise into night.

He crossed his last T and closed the folder, stripping himself of being a doctor with the finality of unhooking his stethoscope from about his neck and closing it away into his drawer. That facet of him slipped off easily. It had been a welcome shift in mentality. The break he needed. Time away from the enigma that was Sherlock and this hot cold, stop start mess he'd gotten himself into.

He cradled his face in his hands, staring at the wall between his fingers while his mind shifted and dredged up that impassioned kiss they'd shared in the kitchen. The exultant high of a body pressed close against his and then the immediate plummet of seeing Sherlock's untented pyjama bottoms.

He chastised himself for letting it bother him so much. What the fuck did it matter?

But it had happened twice now. Sherlock's obvious lack of arousal had happened TWICE. And John was pretty confident he was doing something right with the way Sherlock had reciprocated on their third time kissing. He was into it. But even still, he was batting oh for two (the second kiss didn't count) and it was chewing at him. 

Did Sherlock suffer from something? Erectile dysfunction maybe? If so, it was something they could deal with together. There were pills Sherlock could take. But John wouldn't pressure him. That was his choice to make. Of course.

Was it a little prick? 

John considered himself proportionally hung, if a little proud at his own thickness which had never failed to impress. But even if Sherlock's were small as hell, John would be fine with it. In his line of work he'd seen all kinds and he knew that size was just one factor in a host of many. Skill and desire could make up for and even surpass anything. If one put their mind to it.

And Sherlock certainly did not lack the mind necessary for extraordinary. 

A dirty whisper snuck in and suggested something along the lines of John being undesirable. Unstimulating. But then he saw the flash of those quicksilver eyes piercing right through that thought. /I choose you because you are what I want./ And put an end to that. Sherlock's choices were never made idly.

"Then what?" He asked aloud to the empty room and his stomach was the only thing that growled an answer. Suddenly he realized just how hungry he was and that he hadn't had anything to eat today but the coffee he'd had this morning. Which made his hunger pang all the harder.

'Dinner?' he typed into his phone.

Belatedly, John had the idea that maybe the answer to Sherlock's 'shyness' was in that folder he'd burned. A clue. John willed himself to stop this nonsense. Maybe he could just straight out ask the man what was going on and be done with it.

Yes. That sounded good.

He could grab something on the way home. Maybe Sherlock would be in the mood for Thai and be more moved to talk when plied with exotic food.

As he waited for a reply to his text, the radio bled into his ears.

/Been Dazed and Confused for so long it's not true.  
Wanted a woman, never bargained for you.  
Lots of people talkin', few of them know  
Soul of a woman was created below.

You hurt and abuse tellin' all of your lies.  
Run around sweet baby, Lord how you hypnotize.  
Sweet little baby, I don't know where you've been.  
Gonna love you baby, here I come again./

Jimmy Page's distinctive voice made John turn the song up. Remembering that Mrs. Hudson had wanted him to listen to Led Zeppelin, he obliged her if only by convenience.

/Every day I work so hard, bringin' home my hard earned pay  
Try to love you baby, but you push me away.  
Don't know where you're goin', only know just where you've been,  
Sweet little baby, I want you again./

The drums tapped softly. Page began to lob his voice as his ethereal guitar returned volley. The solo spiraled downward. The snares crashed. Licks swam. The beat stretched and wormed and found its place. "Don't leave me so confused." Page begged in the background and John could sympathise.

But his stomach couldn't and it gurgled another protest to his neglect. Driving him from his office in search of sustenance, a snack to hold him over, but not before he turned the volume knob up loud enough to hear it.

/Been dazed and confused for so long, it's not true.  
Wanted a woman, never bargained for you.  
Take it easy baby, let them say what they will.  
Will your tongue wag so much when I send you the bill?/

The noise resounded in the empty waiting room, following him into the break room where the vending machine buzzed indifferently. He rummaged through his pockets for some pence and in the final crescendo, Page moaning in ecstasy, John looked over his meager choices of crisps versus crisps and decided on crisps.

"I would have never considered orgasmic wailing to be any sort of an enhancement to a song. And it seems my point has just been proven." Came a dark rumble and John was not in the least bit surprised somehow to see Sherlock standing in the doorway to the office he'd /locked/ an hour ago. Hands behind his back. "That was hideous."

"I was just going to grab something on the way home. Unless you're in the mood to go out. Clearly you're in the mood to go somewhere." John stated.

"I was in the neighborhood. Thought I'd drop by."

John turned back at the sound of his crisps dropping and fished them out, before heading back to his office, just expecting Sherlock to follow. He turned off the radio completely while Sherlock surveyed his office with a wandering eye, inspecting everything in the manner that was over in a matter of seconds.

John realized this was the first time Sherlock had seen where he worked, but he didn't know what Sherlock had made of it.

"We're going out tonight." Sherlock said instead. Pulling a large garment bag on a hanger from behind his back. It was impressive that he was able to hide such a thing behind his Belstaff. Almost. That coat was rather huge.

John blinked at the spectacle. "Where to?" 

"The Jolly Bulldog."

"The Jolly Bulldog?" John parroted back. "Is that a restaurant?"

"It's a club."

"Sherlock." John sighed. "I don't want to go to a club. I want to eat. I'm starving. I haven't eaten all day."

"Easily remedied." Sherlock laid the garment bag across John's lap and disappeared out the door. In his absence, John unzipped it to find that Sherlock had brought him his delicately plaid button up and the wine colored sweater he preferred to pair with it. Along with his olive trousers and brown belt which matched the shoes John had left to the surgery in. In short: John's 'dressing up' outfit.

While he frowned at the neatly hung contents, a cling film-wrapped turkey sandwich was dropped on his desk along with a banana and a bottle of water. 

John made a noise meant to be exasperation at filching other doctors' lunches when Sherlock cut him off: "Oh do relax. I left a tenner taped to the door handle. Their next lunch will be on you."

"Cheers." John subsided and unwrapped the sandwich. He was honestly too hungry to care. "So is this a special occasion, or what?"

"Special occasion. Celebration. Going on a date. Tying up loose ends. Whichever you prefer."

"We're going on a date?"

Sherlock laid a heavy eye on him. "Since you so hastily turned down my previous attempt in favour of someone more reprehensibly boring, I'm giving you a second chance to redeem yourself."

It took a moment to locate the time that Sherlock was talking about. But then he remembered, standing amid the crates and crates stacked in their flat while they cross referenced Van Coon's and Lucas' books for a connection between the two men. That peculiar wording he'd used, the night he'd chosen to go out with Sarah instead and found himself unable to leave Sherlock's orbit. If even for a little bit. "That's very considerate of you. I remember turning you down flat."

"Yes." Sherlock said. "That was rather rude." Then he let the matter drop because it clearly no longer mattered. "Get dressed John. The club's across town."

"Alright alright." John wolfed down the sandwich, emptied the bottle and decimated the banana in record time, then found himself sitting awkwardly with his clothes in his hands and his body frozen in place. He looked at Sherlock expectantly.

"Would you like me to turn around?"

"No." John said after a beat. "I suppose not."

"Good. Because I had no intention of doing so." Sherlock's eyes seemed to glow more brightly as his gaze intensified. Watching John as he toed off his shoes and stood before stopping with his hands on his belt buckle. A subtle shift in posture towards resolve and John loosened his pants and slid them down his legs.

The exchange of trousers wasn't that bad. He had nice legs and didn't hold his horrors there. It was finding himself with all his buttons undone and the placket of his shirt held together in his hands that was the problem. Trying to desperately squash the hot flood of warring emotions pinballing through him. Embarrassment. Shame. Terror. Excitement. 

Steeling himself, he set his shoulders back, looked Sherlock straight in the eye and set to his task as quickly and efficiently as he could. He even purposely hesitated between divesting and putting on his new button up, allowing Sherlock to peruse his uncovered torso with his jaw set tight. 

The allowance was no longer than a second, barely more than a quick flash of his eyes, but John knew that Sherlock had seen what there was to see and when their eyes met up once more, Sherlock nodded minutely in thanks and John nodded back, slipping the soft fabric on and feeling a little bit calmer.

Sherlock came forward and tipped his head over John, his face close, utilizing his height and reaching up to rub his thumb across John's cheek. "You do not have to hide from me." He stated, taking turn to look into each of John's eyes separately for emphasis.

"Or you." John added, doing the same. "There is nothing about you I would not understand."

Sherlock's eyes swam with a note of trepidation at that statement, like a cloud passing in front of the sun. But he didn't allow John enough time to pursue it, instead crushing the doctor's thin mouth beneath his in one single kiss and swirling away towards the door. "Come on."

"Nuh uh." John stopped him with a hand on his sleeve and gave his exam table a slap with his palm. The paper crackling. "Coat off and hop up. Let me take a look at that bandaging before we go. At the rate it filled with blood this morning, it's probably overdue to be changed again. I've better stuff here to treat it with anyway. Alright?" The sparkle in John's eyes relayed his intention to not put Sherlock in a difficult position tonight, but also that the man's stubbornness would make it impossible to resist forever.

Sherlock subsided without protest. "Yes doctor." He unshouldered his coat and jacket, revealing a sky blue dress shirt impressively tucked into his black trousers and hefted himself gracefully up sideways onto the table length. Long legs dangling over the edge.

John smirked at the docile image of him there as he rounded up his supplies and ratcheted his stool up to its fullest height, realizing he'd still have to stand to treat the wound, given Sherlock's ridiculous height. "So..." he began, tucking tissue paper into Sherlock's collar and carefully shifting back his curls to clear the area.

"So?" John could feel the vibration of his dark voice this close between them. Silver eye watching him from the corner of his turned face.

"I think I'm ready to hear more about this." His clinician's eye looked over the dressing, which had begun to be stained pink with blood. "Why someone was wielding an axe at your head. You said it was a poker game." He gave the side of Sherlock's neck a distracting squeeze as he peeled back the bandage. "What were you doing to piss 'em off so much? Counting cards?"

Sherlock smirked. "Not then." He reached into the internal breast pocket of his coat and produced an expensive eggshell coloured envelope with intricate black calligraphy on the front. 'Sherlock Holmes' it read simply.

"Sometime after you'd left, Mrs. Hudson brought this up, saying a messenger had delivered it." For the sake of hygiene, he opened the envelope to let John see the interior letter.

It was on black paper, written in the same swirling penmanship, though in white.

'Dear Mr. Holmes,  
You are cordially invited to join us.  
Warm regards.'

"That's it?" John was a bit floundered at the spartan request.

Sherlock hummed. "There was a Rolls Royce parked outside the flat when I looked up. It was all rather theatrical."

"So naturally, you got in." John finished mockingly.

To which Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "You, of course, have no experience getting into nondescript black vehicles idling at the kerb and therefore have every right to chastise me for doing so." If anyone had been counting, they were tied at this point. If one counted the mad cabbie's taxi of course.

John tried to come up with a good answer. "Your brother's something else entirely."

"No argument there." Sherlock grinned, revealing a joke John hadn't intended to make. John busied himself with inspecting the wound, finding it shiny with moisture, which was a good sign. He carefully checked it for signs of infection, put delicate fingers to the redness to see if it gave off any heat and took a cursory sniff for any unusual odor. Satisfied, he applied another smear of antibiotic ointment to the exposed cartilage and peeled apart an occlusive bandage, snipping it to form fit over the odd shape of his ear. Sherlock continued speaking while he worked.

"The back windows were tinted so darkly that it was impossible to see out during the short drive, but tracking each turn the car made, it wasn't hard to figure out that I ended up being taken to Marlborough and the Mall before the car went underground."

It took only a moment to locate that place on John's rudimentary mental map of London. When he figured it out, his hands stopped moving. "Are you serious?"

"Yes."

Really? He /really/ didn't know? Of course not. It was just a point on the map to him. "Sherlock. You were practically next door to the Queen!"

"So?"

"You were on Royal property! Basically a stone's throw away from Buckingham Palace! Jesus. Only you wouldn't think anything of it." John laughed to himself, delighted by the whole affair in a way he hadn't been expecting.

"Anyway. From there I was lead by a foot man to a private dining area where I was to be a participant in a poker game with three other guests. Two men and a woman."

"Is that what the two thousand quid was for then?" John asked, remembering their bank account.

Sherlock nodded. "It was necessary for the buy in. The Sebastopol commission is to make up for that loss though."

It warmed something to know that Sherlock was at least somewhat considerate of their finances, if only for John's sake. He remembered how flippant Sherlock had been only a couple months earlier when Sebastian Wilkes had tried to pay for his services with a cheque and had been waved off derisively. To which John had been quick on the uptake. The number of zeros after the amount had been enough to make John's knees wobble.

"We made it through three rounds before it went to hell."

John peeled off his gloves, wadded up the sterile paper and stepped away from Sherlock, satisfied with his work. "So...which one swung the axe?"

Sherlock tilted his head back upright and fingered his hair, getting it to fall precisely without even having to look in a mirror. With the bandage covered, he looked immaculate as ever sitting straight-backed and proud. "With the lights off and the alarm pulled, it was difficult to tell. Though given the strength of the swing and the height it was at. It's safe to assume that it was one of the men. It was quite helpful that the exits were clearly marked, however, it made it possible to make my escape and return home."

John couldn't help it. He threw his head back and gave one throaty laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.

"You're an idiot, Sherlock Holmes." He said, as a great wash of affection came over him. He put himself between Sherlock's spread knees and touched his forehead to Sherlock's, which was exactly at his level. He hadn't been this comfortable in someone's proximity since what felt like forever. "You're an idiot and a fool and God help us all if you ever change."

He kissed him once. Twice. Enjoying the half-second it took for Sherlock to catch up to his plan and admired the sheer look of confusion painted on that beautiful face. 

"Come along then," he said, moving away to grab up his coat, "we've got to get clear across London!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in case you were interested in the song John listens to in his office it's this one: http://m.youtube.com/?#/watch?v=p5i_H5CPRJ8
> 
> with the music, i'm trying to incorporate certain songs i've chosen into the chapters like they did with Sherlock episodes 2x3 and 3x1. but i'm slowly introducing them where I feel they will fit the best.
> 
> the goose was a combo idea from Sir ACD's 'The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle' and one of my favorite episodes from the radio comedy Cabin Pressure that Mr. Cumberbatch was a part of.
> 
> those of you ambitious enough to look up where Sherlock swanned off to will possibly get an idea of where this story's headed. ;} so hopefully you approve.
> 
> and sex between the two lovelies is just one chapter away so don't wander too far! :D thanks very much for sticking with me!


	7. The Adventures of the Undancing Men

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been two months already? yikes! i'm sorry. have two chapters! thanks for sticking around :}

The building itself was nondescript, nestled deep in the heart of Mayfair and completely unremarkable in every way. Unless one knew precisely what to look for and John knew candidly that the occupant of that flowing Belstaff currently exiting the cab and leaving him to pay certainly did.

John followed as Sherlock strode straight up to a man whose countenance would usually dissuade all passers by from making conversation with him at this time of night. He looked half busker, leaning against the bus stop, with his steel gray beard and mustache and a spider web tattoo netting out across his temple. Dressed casually in a black hoodie and dark jeans.

At his feet sat a white-headed tawny bulldog on a lead; the dead giveaway (if you were looking) to the secret private entrance to The Jolly Bulldog, apparently. The dog's only acknowledgement of the men was a slight hiccup in its smoking snuffle and the slight readjustment of its in-turned feet. Not the happy greeting one might expect from their mascot. "Hardly seems jolly." John muttered to himself and smiled closed-mouth at the severe looking man, not able to shake his giddiness.

The last time John had been out in this capacity, had been when he'd gone to a pub with his old mates before his first deployment. Back then it had been about getting pissed enough to drown the anticipatory butterflies that had making a cyclone in his belly since the day he'd been told he was being shipped out. They'd been tossing up a tempest at his utter realization that he'd /actually/ be traveling to the Middle East, dropping straight down into the middle of the war zone in the effort of helping others to survive it. 

So a night out in this capacity was far preferable.

"Names?" The man asked gruffly, his tattooed hands were clasped empty before him and just lit enough by the street lights for John to read 'CASH ONLY' scratched across his knuckles. 

"Jeremy Brett and David Burke." Sherlock said smoothly, producing from his inner pocket two plastic cards and handing them over for inspection. Along with two twenty pound notes. When the man handed him only the cards back, it was with a satisfied but otherwise barely moved air. Taking the dog, he walked back to a nondescript door and knocked twice. 

For all that the door wasn't, the interior of The Jolly Bulldog was gorgeous. It opened straight into a seductively lit, cool-spectrum-coloured lounge. Its ceiling, coupled with the entire left wall behind the bar was made up of giant, flawless mirrors which gave the intimate room a large feel. The bar itself glistened magically, frosted with a thousand little chips of Swarovski crystals lit only at its edges with purple UV lights. 

The right wall was lined with tall, private booths while the center of the room was offset with blooms of plush gray chairs gathered around small black tables, where a few clutches of chatting men were sitting. Somewhere beyond was the ambient thump of a bass pulsing rhythmically in another room.

Taking it all in, John couldn't help but lick his lips. This place was pure sinful luxury. Secret and small and definitely /definitely/ a place where a man as beautiful and exotic as Sherlock could have spent his time pulling other beautiful men night after night if he'd only been saddled with any other brain. 

So when Sherlock slid out of his coat and only seemed to grow more lean and lithe in the diamond light and when his soft lips curled up at John in a way that sent his stomach afloat, John had the sudden, wistful urge to reach out and take Sherlock's hand. To claim him.

When he did, he felt something else in those fingers and the dreamlike quality of the place lost its soft blurred edges and took on a sharper, more familiar form. "Hang on. Let me see those." Sherlock was only pleased to hand their fake IDs over for John's inspection.

Since John didn't drive, he found that his fake card looked identical to the military identification card he carried with him in his wallet and if he hadn't known damn well that it was currently tucked away on his person, he could have sworn this had been it. It was a replica made so well that it even bore the identical stagnantly smiling visage of John pre-Afghanistan that he currently had on his real one. The only difference was that in place of 'WATSON, JOHN H.', it read: 'BURKE, DAVID P.'. 

Sherlock's driver's license was similarly replaced in name only with: 'BRETT, JEREMY W.H.' 

John merely lifted an eyebrow in question and Sherlock affected a nonchalant sniff, his coat draped over his arm. "I had two others made in the event that our plans tonight should change." From his other pocket Sherlock produced another set of cards, but in the case of these their names were simply replaced by 'RATHBONE, BASIL' and 'BRUCE, NIGEL E.' 

John gave a snort of disbelieving laughter and passed them back, letting Sherlock organize them back into the appropriate pockets.

"When did you have these made?" 

Sherlock smoothed down the lines of his trousers. "Not important. The question you should be asking is why I had them made in the first place." He answered for the good doctor without waiting. "Security purposes, John. If you're going to insist on sticking around, you should at least have your own fake ID to assist me."

"Oh. Ta."

"Although, I have to admit it was a fifty fifty choice as to which pair of names we should have used tonight. I rather fancied going as Basil, more interesting name overall, but you hardly look proletarian enough to pull off being a Nigel."

"Thank...you?" John wasn't sure if he'd heard a compliment in there.

When he looked back up he noticed that Sherlock was eyeing a cluster of men chatting with the bartender at the end of the room, looking over John's head as if he were in the way. His voice took on a distance. "No, no. Jeremy and David seemed to be adequate enough for tonight, so. Here we are then." 

John scoffed. "You could have just swapped yours and my fake names, been who you wanted. I still could have been David."

"Of course I couldn't have," Sherlock made a wrinkled face in disgust, the distaste of John's statement causing him to look back, "you can't just separate and mix them about willy-nilly. It took me /weeks/ to come up with ones that flattered each other so." He faffed his hand, annoyed, eyes back on the party. "Don't be so ridiculous John."

"Right," John shook his head smiling, not at all surprised if Sherlock had used complicated algorithms to come up with such names. And there was a certain joy in hearing the world's only Consulting Detective say 'willy-nilly'. "Because /I'm/ the one being ridiculous. Of course." He checked himself before Sherlock could take offense. "So, do you want to tell me why we've come to a club incognito then? Is it some sort of role play thing?" He ventured cautiously. "Or are you afraid someone's tailing us?"

"It certainly could be a possibility," Sherlock said brightly, as if John had suddenly caught on, "only the night shall tell." 

Truthfully, it wasn't the words or that they were spoken in the conspiratorial manner that tripped John's revelation. It was the /wink/. That innocuous little motion that had once left a more battered John tilting bereft on his cane in the middle of St. Bart's lab. Blinking at a door where a certain madman had slipped out having disseminated his life through his stance and phone. Back when John had had no idea about just what kind of trouble he was getting himself into. Such dangerous, wonderful trouble.

The penny dropped and...oh! he realized EXACTLY what the late-night-office-visit-cum-club-foray was really about. Just as their first kiss had been, just as the dentist's visit was; a call to arms, a domestic bit of subterfuge.

This was still about The Case.

"Oh my god." John couldn't help his palm when it slapped up against his head at his own idiocy. How? HOW could he have been so dim? HOW ON EARTH could he have /forgotten/ who he was dealing with? Even for a millisecond?

In the time it took for him to swipe his palm down his face, Sherlock was on the move, expecting him to follow. "Let's get rid of our coats and have some drinks, shall we?" 

He was swanning off towards the bar, giving his hips the slightest of damnable sways in either an effort of character or simply to raise John's hackles. Whichever, John thought it a bit more flamboyant than truly necessary, even if it did make his pert arse look fantastic in those trousers. 

John came abreast to the coat check just as a lone man at the bar was angling towards speaking to Sherlock, slipping right between them and leveling an impressive scowl which sent the man immediately tipping straight back to where he had come from.

If he'd held out any doubts as to what Sherlock's true intentions were in coming here, or the fallacy of his own assumptions, they were vaporized when the man behind the counter exchanged their jackets for invisible stamps. Stamps which only exposed themselves when John lowered his hand to the bar's purple black light on a resigned whim and a glowing bulldog's head sneered plaintively back up at him. John sighed.

This was the exact stamp Sherlock had noticed gracing the back of Dr. Sipe's hand just before John had lost consciousness in the dentist's chair and floated right out of his mind. 

To battle then.

Sherlock leaned over the bar and ordered a complicated drink involving four words that shouldn't have gone together, which required the bartender to drip olive oil into a gin and vermouth laden cocktail glass using a pipette and adding (inexplicably) an egg's viscous glaire. After that, Sherlock ordered something involving truffles for John. It was only a partial surprise when Sherlock requested it all to be put upon an open tab, meaning either it was going to be a long night or he was placating John in his wariness.

Eyes on the bartender, John spoke, "so..." 

"So?" Sherlock turned to face out with his strange drink behind him, leaning back on the bar with his elbows, and thrusting his pelvis out a little too invitationally. John found himself leaning closer, feeling the overwhelming need to claim the territory of those hips as his. Just as he had Sherlock's bum earlier. 

After all, they were his; they'd agreed. 

He clasped his hands on the bartop and cleared his throat. "Want to elaborate on why it is we're here? For real this time. If this is for the case, a /closed/ case as was my understanding of it, it might be helpful to let me in on whatever bit of evidence there is that's got you convinced it's worthwhile for us to come here."

"Eliminating all extraneous variables, as I told you before." Sherlock said distractedly. He was keeping his glass eyes trained exclusively onto a door at the back of the room, where the party of men he'd been watching previously had disappeared into. 

"Loose ends." John muttered, remembering it amongst the list Sherlock had mentioned back in his office and shook his head. "Right."

The barman slid John's comparatively ordinary drink into his hand and John took a sip, immediately followed by another as he realized how good it actually tasted. But he was interrupted from truly indulging in it.

As subtle as it was, the tightness in Sherlock's musculature was instantly noticeable, only enhanced by the skin tight wrap of his clothes as his whole posture changed into whipcord. Instead of simply watching the door, he was now staring pointedly at it, as if he could melt it down with his gaze alone and take apart whatever it was that he'd just seen. 

Sherlock was pushing up onto his feet soon after, completely ignoring his drink and placing his hand gently onto John's shoulder. "I feel like a bit of a wander, David. Have a dance maybe. Coming?" He kept his voice casual.

"Of course." John was out of his seat like a shot, following close and scanning the room as they went, watching for any and every possible threat that could leap out and catch them unawares. Not at all certain what it was he was suppose to be watching for, but certainly ready for it.

The back door led to a hallway that stretched on for twenty meters that was pitch black, save for narrow chevrons of yellow lights beckoning them onward towards a shuddering, riotous terminus that looked like an explosion of deafening bass and technicolor neon. 

They passed two men snogging ardently against a sign as large as John's torso reading: 'WARNING, EXCESSIVE SOUND LEVELS', which, in all honesty, didn't even come /close/ to describing the bone-shaking immensity of the noise that enveloped the dance hall.

Lasers swirled, spotlights flashed, there was the thick choking haze of fake smoke wafting about that held the duel stench of heated glycerin and the sticky sweet undercurrent of marijuana. In the center of the room was a writhing, throbbing mass of men dancing against each other, pressing close in various states of undress. 

Dark deeds were being done in dark corners and it was all so much John hadn't realized he'd stopped to parse it all until he'd lost sight of Sherlock in the throng.

He shouted the man's name, pushing up onto his toes, but his voice was lost into the claustrophobic verve of sound. Choicelessly, he cleaved his way in, sliding through bodies and pardoning his way through enthusiastic couples, all the while keeping his eyes peeled for that unmistakable head of black curls bobbing somewhere on top of the crowd. 

Above them the house music had paused to have a girl scream "oh my god!" and immediately the room went black, pulsing disorientingly with nothing but a strobe light choreographed to go off when the music changed. 

The crowd around him suddenly became flash framed in a series of wild, flailing positions. Arms up. Mouths open. Gyrating, twisting, writhing, and grinding, as the lights went on and off as if a hundred paparazzo were flash bulbing the crowd in an effort to catalogue their pleasure.

Somewhere in the midst of his press, a bodiless hand reached out and took a palmful of his groin, squeezing it heartily. He yelped, then groaned, and made a fist in eventual fury, whirling about but unable to find the offending individual so he could jaw them. Having no choice but to continue his search.

When the normal lights resumed, he finally laid eyes on Sherlock again. He was bent over speaking very closely to what appeared to be a bodybuilder about to bust out of his white shirt and dark waistcoat. The man was John's height, but had so much muscle crammed beneath his skin that he was practically the same in width as well. Their faces were incredibly close. Too close.

John bullied his way in beside Sherlock, getting an appraising look from the bodybuilder before he leant close to address both of them simultaneously. "As I was about to say; if either of you gentlemen care to make your night a LOT more interesting I have just what you're looking for. A tenner will buy you one Mandy, a score'll buy ya two and a spare. Prices go down when the numbers go up and there's nothing like the proper lady to make a gay man see straight. So, what's your damage?" The man was talking loudly, but it was still a struggle to be heard over the din. 

"Mandy?" John was utterly perplexed, looking to Sherlock for explanation. 

But he was casually dismissing the dealer's words with a disinterested hand wave. "No no no. I require stimulants. Uppers if you must but NOT preferred." Sherlock's voice was also raised as if this were a perfectly okay conversation to be having. "Hallucinogens are of no interest to me."

The dealer ran his thumb down his nose and seemed to brighten. "Ah! A man after my own heart, I see! Very good, very good. Gram'll cost you a century, 'cause I'd be takin' from my own stash, mind, but I do have just the droids you're looking for--" the man was reaching in to his waistcoat and pulling out a small baggy of white powder before John even realized what was happening and quickly shut it down.

"What? NO! Absolutely not!" John barked and instinctively pushed Sherlock by the small of his back deeper into the crush, away from the man. He steered him all the way to the side where they popped out by the wall where there was the remotest alley of space to stand. "Sherlock!"

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Sherlock turned on him instantly, wriggling out of reach and shouting as if John had just done him a great disservice. "And don't call me Sherlock! God. We're undercover in case it's slipped your mind!"

"What the HELL do you think YOU'RE doing?!" John yelled back, forgetting his fake name at all. "You're not buying bloody drugs! I thought you were looking for ...whatever it was you were looking for!"

"I was!" Sherlock replied incredulously, leaning close. "HE was precisely who I was following! Don't you understand? Drug runners are the perfect informants when it comes to getting what I need. He's cased the room, he knows who's in attendance. He can get me information!" The flicker in John's face, whether a trick of the lights or something else, made Sherlock explain. "I /require/ the information John, not getting high. Do you honestly think I would sacrifice three years of sobriety simply to go off my head in a place like this? In the middle of a CASE? That I'd indulge in such proclivities right in front of you? How insulting! If I were to do anything of the sort it would be behind your back! But since you've moved in it's not even ever been a consideration!"

The unintended honesty of the last statement, flashing quick off the spike of the penultimate one, quelled back John's fury into pulsing embarrassment. He was wrong. But his brain stubbornly ploughed on without acknowledging this. "Well, were you really going to buy it?"

"Of course I was!" Sherlock stated incredulously. "How else was I to make inquiries? Dealers can be plied with money, David. Information bought and sold just as easily as their wares. You KNOW this. The ecstasy he was pedalling was cut with ketamine anyway, which makes it cheap and useless. His coke, however, was a high grade uncut product, if his lingering cardiomyopathy is anything to go by, which it /is/. There are clear signs--" 

"Well...what were you going to do with it after you bought it?" Each question he asked made him feel more and more like a clot. Desperately slow on the uptake and needing to satisfy his own worry as to Sherlock's true motives, just the way he'd told off Mycroft for doing when he'd picked him up outside 221B, chastising him about trying to control a grown man's life.

John was experiencing a sort of vertigo now. With Sherlock's eyes boring down on him, he noticed that his heart was beating incredibly fast, knocking about in his chest like a bird into a window. The music and the crowd and the moment all trying to simultaneously consume him. Eat him up. He felt his armpits grow sweaty, his shoulder throb. He flexed his hand and tried not to feel so wrong-footed.

The truth was, he'd made an assumption that had come out completely wrong. Dredged up by the recent conversations he'd been having with Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and Mycroft as to Sherlock's past, which completely superseded whatever input Sherlock could have given to John himself. If he'd simply just /asked/. 

Humiliation was a bitter pill to swallow.

"Throw it away. Flush it. Hell, I don't know! You're focussing entirely upon the wrong aspect of this whole situation!" Sherlock's eyes were back towards the crowd, glancing about in hopes of finding his mark again before looking back down, taking John by the biceps, making his statement insistent. "I would not have taken it David. Believe me."

John wilted slightly, feeling like an interruption more than anything. Knowing by the look in Sherlock's pragmatic eyes that his words were true and had to turn away. "I believe you Jeremy. And I'm sorry." Doing what he thought right, he produced his wallet from his back pocket and pressed a fifty pound note into Sherlock's hand. "Here. Get what you need."

Sherlock's head only tilted inquisitively, to which John merely raised up and kissed him full on the mouth in apology to keep him from speaking. "I'll be at the bar, blocking the exit if you should need me." He had to get out of here, make himself useful and only necessary when it was valued. 

If Sherlock made any attempts at calling him back, it was lost in the cacophony.

//

John resumed his seat at the bar, signalling the barman over. What he wanted desperately was a good old fashioned pint to try and drown himself in, but he got something else instead. "I'll have another of those ...truffly things please."

"Truffled licorice sour, sir?" 

"That's it. Yes." While the man slung libations together, John wallowed in his self pity. 

Here he was again, alone, and though this time it was of his own volition, John still felt the sharp focus of the fact that Sherlock was off, blazing trails in pursuit of the Game without him, with motives unknown, leaving John spinning in the dust. 

He /needed/ Sherlock, he realized dully. To follow and to look after, though in a less heavy-handed way. He needed him far more than he needed John. So with a resigned sigh, he decided then and there that there was simply no other choice but to be ready for the day Sherlock decided he needed him back. If it should ever come at all.

He sipped at his poncy drink as he let his eyes casually roam the other side of the lounge behind him through the bar's mirrored wall, half hoping the long dark figure he'd left standing in the throng would just magically materialize behind him like he seemed so often to do. Most preferably in fast pursuit of someone John could take out his aggression on, if he were to be truly honest.

Instead, a prickly sort of feeling thrummed up the back of John's neck just as his eyes became locked with the penetrating gray gaze of a young man sitting at a booth in the front corner of the room, which placed him at John's rear left. His seat was offset enough to just show him at the very edge of the mirror, but his intense stare seemed to have taken up all the space in the room. 

He looked deceptively young, with a diamond shaped face and thin, wispy limbs wrapped smartly in a three piece gray suit that he chose to wear tieless and garnished with a white silk pocket handkerchief. A shock of torchlight orange hair was slicked back into a mound at the top of his head, exuding an unnatural elegance that was simply intriguing. 

The most extraordinary thing though about this boy was what he had striping the entirety of his throat. Rising up from the crisp white collar of his dress shirt and taking up the space clear to his chin, were the bold, thick crossing lines of the Union Flag. The red and blue geometrical blocks stood proudly against the naturally white expanse of his throat, the negative space left uncolored. The naked vertical stripe of St. George's Cross lined straight down the boy's esophagus, giving it a strange sort of ideation for crucifixion. 

John faintly remembered the grinding pain he'd endured for four hours as the indelible ink had been etched into his own arm with his tattoo. The married emblems of the Fusiliers and RAMC that he'd asked Harry to design for him before he'd left to Afghanistan. At the two-hour mark his endorphins had been depleted and he'd had to sit through the rest calmly gritting his teeth as his arm was turned to hamburger.

But to do that willingly to the soft flesh of your throat...John could only imagine.

John noticed that the boy was looking at him almost seductively, as if he saw something in John that John was finding hard pressed to figure out for himself. He'd seen enough young men back in his Army days with daddy issues and sexual identity crises that he decided right then and there that whatever the boy's intent, it was completely misplaced. A gentle dismissal, should he approach, was already percolating in his mind.

Inexplicably, a memory floated into the forefront of John's thoughts, Sherlock's voice repeating a comment he'd muttered while they'd been sitting in Dr. Sipe's waiting room about redheads requiring double the anaesthesia dosage of other people. The profundity of the idea, the sheer randomness of its recollection, made John smirk which in turn caused the young man to finally turn away. 

Movement beside him made John turn back as a paper cone of fancy peanuts was set down and a tall man approached him to his right to take a stool, ordering a glass of white wine. "Do you mind if I join you?" 

"Uh," John's gentlemanly qualities bubbled up by rote, blinking in surprise. "Be my guest."

The man was tall and broad, with large dark eyes and a pleasant face. His brown hair was very curly, cropped short and crowning the mere top of his head. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned to the middle of his sternum, exposing a rich V of hairless tanned chest. His black-trousered knees bumped the bar as he clapped his Italian leather boots on the stool's bottom rung, obviously staying whichever John's response might have been. He reached a large hand across his body and shook John's, introducing himself. "Miles."

"Hi Miles, I'm...uh...David." John remembered his pseudonym just in time.

"Pleasure to meet you David." He seemed to consider something before leaning back over. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I'm not here to hit on you. Totally straight." He threw a handful of peanuts into his mouth and spoke around them. "It's just-- my mates are still back there dancing and I don't want to look like a complete tosser sitting all by myself at our table."

"No worries." John responded with a smile. "I'm with someone anyway." The casualness with which he said it was incredibly satisfying.

Miles seemed to relax noticebly after that. "Cheers. I promise I'll leave you alone as soon as they're back."

"No problem at all." John nodded and sipped at his drink, feeling it necessary to be conversational. "So, any particular reason why a straight man's at a gay bar this time of night? Bit of a posh place just to get pissed, if I can be honest."

The man's bright smile was stunning. "Book launch party, would you believe? My mates thought it'd be a good joke coming here, the fucking twats. I'm a writer. Used to be in advertising, but I've given that up recently. Well, it went under, technically. But it was a shite job anyway so, I'm taking my life in a new direction."

"Oh? Cheers." John drank to that.

"What about you then David? What do you do for a living when wankers aren't disrupting your night?"

John laughed. "I'm a doctor." Despite the fake name, he felt it best to stick to as many facts as he could. Which turned out to be a very good thing.

"Oh yeah?" A dark shadow seemed to flash over Miles' face at that, though he tried to keep his face spirited. He took a sip of his wine, then another, and couldn't hold back a question that he seemed to be debating over whether or not to ask. "Ever dealt with cancer?"

When John confessed that he had a limited knowledge on the subject, Miles began interrogating him about what it was exactly and why it happened. The different kinds. Wanting John's professional medical opinion, slight though it was. He danced around rhabdomyosarcoma specifically, until John finally asked straight out what his own experience concerning it was, which made the conversation blossom into an explanation of why Miles had suddenly decided on publishing his book. He said that it had been based on what he described as both the best and worst week of his life.

In the story that followed, Miles talked about an old friend whom had passed away just that summer after succumbing to that malicious disease, to which John conveyed his condolences. 

Miles went on to describe what kind of person his friend had been. An optimist who had been convinced that had he been dealt a different hand, he would have amounted to someone amazing. He had been a writer as well, though Miles felt that perhaps his friend would have made a better poet, speaking during his last days alive as death being a "dance through the firmament" and other prophetic ideas. 

Around forty minutes later and a second cone of shared peanuts, the conversation had turned to the subject of his friend's last week alive, when Miles and two other lifelong friends had taken said friend to his favourite place in the world called Barafundle Bay. John learned that it was at that beach in Whales where his friend had chosen finally to take his life without the rest of the party knowing until it was too late.

"He was face down in the water when we found him that morning. There was nothing we could have done." Miles' words as he finished speaking were solemn, but more contemplative than sad. Long ago having come to terms with the inevitability of it. He was spinning his mostly empty wine stem on the bar top between his fingertips, both men focused on the soft scrape of glass on glass as if it were a metaphor for something they couldn't explain. "I don't think I blame him, really. But I don't know if I would have had his courage y'know? Doing it like that. Choosing to end it in that way. I suppose he wasn't wrong, it's what he wanted, anyway. I mean, it was his life. His choice ultimately."

John contemplated his response for a long while, the story compounded by his own personal experiences that seemed to have bloomed fresh with new sadness. He knew his words were nothing but a balm to a wound that would yet take years to heal, but he felt it necessary to say what he felt, if even for his own selfish comfort. "It's a lucky thing, seeing a mate off. Getting to just /be there/. It means a lot to the ones who leave us. Trust me on that. And getting to go out under our own steam, that's a blessing too. Even if right now it doesn't look like it was."

Miles nodded acceptably, the seriousness in his demeanor lifting a little as his eyes left the crystal bar and looked back at John with a soft smile. He raised his glass in toast. "Cheers then David. To old friends."

"And new." John added.

"And new, yes." Miles smiled that 1000 watt smile.

"You wouldn't happen to have a copy of your book, would you?" John asked, suddenly remembering.

Miles sniggered and held up a finger, going to the coat check and coming back. He slid over a glossy paperback copy with a rueful look and flushed a bit while John looked it over. 

John automatically flipped to the first page which read 'To James: remember that you were loved by me and you made my life a happy one. And there is no tragedy in that.' It made something tenuous in John's heart ache.

"Sorry to interrupt," said a very familiar voice. 

They both looked up simultaneously into the mirror to find Sherlock standing stiffly behind them, his body turned possessively towards John. "Are you ready to leave? I'm finished here." Sherlock was ghostly pale and glistening with sweat, though his shirt magically bore no perspiration stains.

John fought the first sickening thought that came to him concerning those particular symptoms, looming large in his mind as they were in conjunction with the bullseye's-worth hole gaping in his wallet and precisely why he'd left Sherlock alone almost an hour ago flashing in his memory. But he chewed his worry down into submission and made himself believe that Sherlock had simply come from a very hot, very loud room. Nothing else. He trusted him.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" John asked hopefully, turning on his stool to actually face him.

Sherlock read John's face, his scowl shifting into aggravation. "No." He ignored Miles completely and made off for the coat check without another word. 

John and Miles turned back to look at each other, John giving an apologetic shrug as he got up. "Long night." Was his defense. "I'd better be off."

"Yeah, alright," Miles accepted easily. "Hey. Thanks for letting a barmy bugger spoil your night. You were a big help."

"Absolutely." John smiled and left, tapping the book on the bar top. "Thanks again and congratulations. Of course."

Miles grinned sublimely and gave him a small wave goodbye.

By the time John caught up with him, Sherlock was out on the kerb sitting in a taxi with the door open, his nose buried in his Blackberry. 

The predawn sky that enveloped dear London was the fitful sodalite colour of the ever-lit, always alive with electricity. And immovable in the midst of its starlessness, stood the man with steel grey mustache and the bulldog by the bus stop. As if no time had passed all. 

Giving him an appreciable nod, John slid in beside Sherlock and the cabbie pulled off. "Alright?"

Sherlock ignored him. Not speaking until John finally looked away. "Would your conscience have been more at ease back there if I had allowed you to frisk me? Perhaps you would like to check my pupils?"

"What? No." John bolstered himself at the flash of shame, forgetting that Sherlock could read minds. He supposed he should be grateful Sherlock hadn't said anything in front of Miles. "Listen Sherlock, I was out of line before. I DO trust you. I don't want you thinking that I don't. It just surprised me is all."

Sherlock met his eyes at that, searching his gaze before giving a little nod and turning back down to his phone. A moment later, Sherlock produced a hundred pound note from his pocket and threw it in John's direction carelessly.

"What's this for?" John caught it against his chest.

"I was able to sell the coke on to third party, double the price. It was either that or I was going to secret it home and experiment on it after you went to bed. But I assumed that had I chosen the latter you would have been fairly upset with me."

"Uh, yeah. Maybe a bit." John bit out sarcastically, sighing at the prospect of Sherlock having sold someone else drugs, but as it was the ultimate outcome, he much preferred it. "Is that where we're headed then?"

"Home? Yes."

When John checked his watch, he was surprised to see that it was almost two in the morning. That in itself made him yawn. "Are we calling it a night?"

"There's nothing further I can think of for us to do." Sherlock said with an upset breath. "We've no choice but to wait and observe. However loathsome that plan of inaction. That dealer had no information of any value, the club itself was a dead end, and tonight, overall, has been a waste of time." He grumbled. "I had Lestrade send us copies of all pertinent information regarding the two previous shoving victims and anything else they had on Sterling Sipe that may be of use to us. I'm missing something. I know it. I just don't know WHAT. It's aggravating."

"Lestrade's going to send us stuff even though we left him high and dry at the morgue this morning? That's a bit surprising." 

"It took a bit of convincing, but Geoff was eventually persuaded." Sherlock sniffed proudly. "I can be very persuasive."

"And yet you can't be persuaded to learn his name. It's /Greg/, Sherlock. Greg. Quit deleting it."

"It's inconsequential to the Work, John." He shrugged dismissively. "Besides. I know your name. Isn't that enough?"

A warmth bloomed in John's chest at that. Sudden and bright. His throat tightening until it made his queued up remark nothing but a click. He felt frozen in place, staring at his friend whose obliviousness could only be trumped by his observational skills. Sherlock Holmes content in the knowledge that John's name was enough. That /John/ was enough. It was heartening, to say the least.

Sherlock glanced up just as John pried his anchored stare away, too afraid at what Sherlock might see when he looked at him. John took to watching him surreptitiously through the reflection of the window, trying to parse his feelings and sort himself as the shadows washing over the taxi made Sherlock's face swim from back and forth from dream to reality. 

Blocks blurred past in silence. The city just starting to wake. Newspapers were being cut out of their binding and set out, hung on the racks of coffee kiosks. John vaguely wondered if Sipe's name were gracing any of their pages but mostly found he didn't care. 

The silence between them ensued for so long that John was able to dip deep into contemplative thought, nearly missing what Sherlock eventually mumbled his way. "Come again?"

"I said: did you /like/ him?" Sherlock spoke as if the words were bitter, his voice quiet.

"Who?" John tried to figure it out, floundering in his disorientation. Then pointed behind them with his thumb, "Miles? No. Not like /that/, no. If that's what you're implying. No, he's straight. We were just ...having a chat."

"Hm 'chatting', yes." Sherlock scowled at his phone. "Enlighten me, as it's not my area John; do all idle talks with heterosexual strangers result in door prizes? You obviously maintained being intriguing enough to acquire some sort of hideous dreck from him, given the /casualness/ of your conversation. Par for the course?"

John's eyebrows went up. The book was forgotten in John's lap, covered by his hands, which he supposed did look a little possessive but he didn't quite understand Sherlock's villainy of it. "No. It's just a book. I probably won't read it, honestly. I don't even know what it's about. He was just telling me about one of his mates who died of cancer this sum--"

"I'm not interested." Sherlock interrupted bluntly and tried to maintain his hard look. It lasted all of about seventeen seconds however, because his frown kept cracking with worry. "So, you would concede that you didn't like him then?"

"No. I liked him, sure, but just as a regular sort of bloke. I wasn't chatting him up or anything." A thought tickled John's periphery, one that made the hair on his arms stand up. "I'm with you, Sherlock. I'm not going to beetle off with somebody else. Is that what you're worried about? We're together."

"But how?" Sherlock frowned more deeply, clearly confused and angry about it. "It's not as if it's been consummated. I've no more rights to you than anyone else. What's to stop you from simply leaving?"

"Leaving? Where the hell would I go!" John balked, suddenly reeling, "Sherlock? Are you jealous?"

"No." Sherlock answered, a hair too quickly.

"You are! You're bloody jealous!" John let out a sharp bark of laughter. "Of /that/ guy? Oh that is--"

"Shut up John." Sherlock snapped, burrowing down into his coat like a turtle. 

"No, it's ...lovely." John hemmed in his laughter before he caused an incident, his heart swelling exponentially as he reached over to pat Sherlock's knee. "Really Sherlock. It's fine. It's all fine. It's just nice to know you can feel that way towards things. Makes me feel ...special." John let his hand stay, wanting to convey his appreciation.

He was delightfully surprised when Sherlock's hand hovered over his momentarily before settling lightly upon it. Unsure of its welcome but definitely conveying that he /was/ special. Sherlock was chewing on his lips and there was a distinct shiver in his eyes. His worried countenance, lit up from below by his phone, made the soft blade of his face appear exceedingly young. He seemed to be on the verge of saying something incredibly difficult for him, debating with himself. Something important. 

Those sinister lips opened, then closed and John waited patiently for it to come. Like fate, just as he finally found his voice, the ignorant cabbie announced '221B' right over the top of his "John, I--".

With a pointed look, Sherlock was clambering over John's knees and out of the taxi like a dark flash, leaving John to pay and trundle slowly in after him as he shot up the stairs two at a time. If it hadn't been for the residual heat lingering on the back of his hand, John wouldn't have been so content to let Sherlock have a moment to get his thoughts together. 

He took the stairs patiently, half by choice and half in exhaustion. It had been a VERY long day and night, after all. But he looked forward to what was waiting for him inside the flat. His stomach fluttering. 

John found Sherlock standing awkwardly between his leather chair and the table in the sitting room, holding an expandable folder in his hands and picking nervously at the edge. John assumed it was the information he'd had Lestrade send over, but when John put the paperback down on their office table, he wasn't at all surprised when Sherlock set down the folder right on top, obscuring it from view.

"So? What did you want to talk about?" John gave him the lead.

Sherlock blundered for a moment, making him look all the more endearing before he clasped his fidgeting hands behind his back in an effort to stem his coltish behaviour. "I, uh, you'll be pleased to know that the goose has been removed and returned to the Oakshot sisters while you were away. It had *ahem* coughed up the goods shortly after you left. The reward money should be wired into our account by the morning. Mrs. Hudson took the liberty of cleaning your floor and all your bedding has been replaced. The soiled ones have been thrown in the bin."

"Oh really? That's nice." John shuffled into a simulacrum of parade rest, goading him along. "But that's not REALLY what you wanted to talk about right now, was it? Not that it's not appreciated." 

"No." Sherlock flushed pink with embarrassment. Caught out. Taking a steeling breath he stood up straight, looking John directly into the eyes. "John I--, I feel that this would be an opportune time to... I believe I have come to the conclusion that there are certain aspects of my life that I would like to share with you in an effort strengthen our relationship so that we may take things forward. I encourage your own input as well. I am interested to know whatever it is you wish to tell me. And clearly, I mean those facts that are not readily available for me to deduce. That is, if you're not too fatigued."

John snorted at the presentation, finding it perfect. "No. I think I can manage to stay awake for a while longer. But I do have to use the loo before we start."

"Yes. Of course." Sherlock rocked on his heels, obviously relieved, then remembered something. "Although, I ehm, should warn you before hand. You may find it far easier to use the en suite upstairs as it's far less ...currently occupied. Well, the toilet's free, but the shower and sink--"

John's brow furrowed, stopping mid-step. Always something. "Currently occupied by /what/ exactly?" Just PLEASE don't let it be another live animal.

Sherlock pursed his lips. "Sixteen varieties of carnivorous plants, though the lot is predominantly Nepenthes and Sarracenia. I had them overnighted..." Sherlock's voice died out as John held up his hand, not wanting to spoil the tone of tonight with tangents. "S'fine." 

"Is it?" Sherlock looked utterly bewildered.

"Mhm. You can explain it to me later. But right now..." John toed off his shoes and removed his purple cardigan then, smiling wide when Sherlock finally couldn't stop himself from scoffing at the socks he was wearing. "I wondered why you didn't say anything back at my office."

"I was trying to help you remain calm." Sherlock responded with an eyeroll, keeping stock still as John walked right up into his space. The only movement he made was to tip his head down to accommodate him, his chin getting lost in his neck. "But for the record, those are incredibly hideous."

"Ta." John kissed him. Initiating the contact between them for the first time since they'd agreed to this as something more than a chaste peck. He kissed him deeply, making sure to press his lips against his friend long enough and firmly enough to release the coiled tension in Sherlock's muscles. Feeling it fall from his body like a caul.

"Does this mean you're amenable to discussing things then? Between you and I?" Sherlock rumbled apprehensively as John gave his arms a reassuring squeeze before stepping back, still a little dumbstruck at the idea of being able to do that whenever he wished now.

"Wouldn't miss it. Just give me a mo, yeah?" John gave him another chaste peck and disappeared up the stairs. He made an effort to brush his teeth and - blushing at his own brazenness - gave his crotch and armpits a thorough wipe down with a damp flannel, wanting to be clean in a general sense. After giving himself a conciliatory sniff, he actually spent a penny and headed back down. Sure that Sherlock would notice everything he'd done anyway.

When he crossed the threshold of the sitting room, Sherlock seemed to have recomposed himself. He was sitting in his chair now, elbows on his knees with his chin lit upon his version of Dürer's praying hands, staring into the middle distance.

John smirked at the effort and rounded onto their drinks cupboard instead of going directly to his seat. "Care for a drink?"

"If it will make you feel more at ease." John took that deflection as a yes and played along.

"I'm alright. It's just been a while since I've had to discuss this sort of stuff, y'know? Might be a bit rusty." John devoted himself to the careful consideration of their alcoholic options. If this was going to be a poignant time in their relationship, a turning point, he felt they needed something special to celebrate it with. The truffled drinks from The Jolly Bulldog hadn't even followed him home and John could hold his liquor.

After thorough perusal, he brushed his fingertips decidedly over the bottle of eighteen year old Chivas Regal Scotch whiskey Sherlock had received from a client as a gift long before John had lived here. He took it up and cracked the seal with a heavy sense of satisfaction. It would do nicely.

He also took up two round tumblers and brought them to the kitchen sink to rinse the dust away, continuing on his own improvised ceremony. Sherlock took the two fingers with an obliging nod, allowing John his process without comment.

Ensconced in the warm embrace of his chair and gratified by the first satin sip of some /very/ fine scotch, John suddenly came to the realization as he looked across to his expectant flatmate, with whom he was about to discuss previously untold secrets regarding his amorphous sexuality, that his mind had come up completely blank.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in borderline patience while John took another sip and pursed his lips as if to encourage the words to come, but only found his mind more slippery. He had no idea where to start.

With a put upon sigh, Sherlock indulged in a deductive squint reminiscent of the way one would sight in a rifle and began. "Tell me John. Was it the male camaraderie in combination with the persistent threat to life and limb that was the catalyst for you to begin your exploration of the previously suppressed homoromantic side of your bisexuality while away in Afghanistan? Or was it simply convenience?" He took a prim sip from his glass, savoring his kill shot.

Straight for the bollocks then. 

John let the air punch out of him, sweeping right past the shock and hurtling straight on to honest curiosity, tinged with a bit of incredulity. "How do you know I only got on with blokes in Afghanistan?"

Sherlock sighed but smirked wryly, like it was all so terribly easy. "Honestly. Given the tenuous relationship you have with your sister, it's no great leap to assume that you refuse to get along with her simply by the fact that you two have identical personalities. Harry would have come to terms with her sexual identity, being the older sibling, far sooner than you would have and came out to your parents, I suspect, sometime in her early teens.

"You, as a child, would have then witnessed the resultant discourse would have had upon your family and chosen very consciously to suppress any 'unnatural' feelings you might have had towards other men, choosing to burden yourself with becoming the quintessentially upstanding young man your father looked on you to be before your mother's death. In essence, Harry's coming out drove you to seek a medical profession and later to enlist in the Army in an effort to live up to expectations set upon yourself by you and your father combinedly."

"I could have started in med school..." John tried, but Sherlock was already shaking his head.

"No no no. It was in the nineties that you began your residency, so the Sexual Offences Act of 1967 would have still been in effect and forbade anyone under the age of twenty-one to engage in any homosexual activity under penalty of law. And given that you had had conscientiously bigoted homophobic ...friends? No, a roommate! -- oh! even better! -- during that period, you wouldn't have risked your prospective career on any sort of possible drama that could have arisen, ergo you purposely chose to court strictly females throughout your time studying and only delineated from your set path once the perfect circumstances arose. Inference: Afghanistan.

"So it's only a natural progression to conclude that you would have been more at ease to indulge in this previously ignored side of your sexuality given the circumstances at hand. Far away from all previous prejudicial expectations. Free from prying eyes.

"I can, in fact, be one hundred percent certain that you've taken no male partners before or after your three deployments due to the fact that you would have willingly engaged every solicitor that presented themself to you during your tours and found every one to be either farcical, inappropriate within the divisions of rank, or unsatisfactory in some way. Yes?"

Sherlock leaned back a little, as if waiting for John to applaud.

But John just found himself blinking, his mind catching up slowly before his mouth moved. "Uh, no." His contradiction seemed to surprise them both in equal measure. "No in fact."

"No?" Sherlock's eyebrows stitched so tightly that the little wrinkle John always found so intriguing appeared above his nose. "I got something wrong?"

"Uh, yeah. A big one actually." Realizing suddenly as to what he'd just said; John had the good sense to be insulted. "And just so we're clear, I didn't /actually/ go around rogering the entire company like a complete slag just to get my rocks off with blokes, yeah? But ta for that."

Sherlock was immediately crestfallen, aware from John's tone that he'd stepped over a line, but John spoke again before he could. Not wanting to watch the detective writhe too much. "But you /are/ right about me not having been with a man before or after. And maybe about everything else, I haven't ever thought about it really. But you're definitely NOT right about...I-- 'convenience' is the wrong word. It wasn't like that...It was--" 

John found himself grasping at ghosts suddenly. An icy cold blooming in his guts as he thought back to his last days in Afghanistan. Those last moments of clarified consciousness that felt like they'd happened a lifetime ago, to somebody else even, ones he'd fought so hard not to think on. And he decided immediately that if they started down this particular path tonight, it was certain to ruin their evening. John decided he didn't want that at all. 

He looked to his scotch for guidance, licking his lips.

"War does things, Sherlock. Things that...it changes you..." He looked up into Sherlock's sea glass eyes and tried to be as honest as possible while simultaneously remaining very vague. "It was good. What we had, while it lasted. It helped me make it through. It made it /bearable/." John knew that was not the answer Sherlock was watching him for, but as a token of his friendship, he was letting it lie. John took a bolstering swallow and tried to steer the conversation back around. "Your turn now. You've obviously deduced most of the things that there are about me with that big bloody brain of yours. I want to hear about you. What you've done. Have you been with a man?"

Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow at the obvious redirection. "I have." 

"And you're interested in doing it again?"

"Clearly." Came the cool reply.

John felt the telltale heat creep into his ears, deciding it was best to get it all settled quickly. He settled his chin onto his fingers, his index propped calmly against his cheekbone. His thumb on his lip. Eschewing nervousness. "Right then. So...were you a ...top?"

"No."

Good to know. "Ah. Okay. That's fine."

"But you were." Sherlock stated.

"Um, yes. Though I'm ...open to not being one. Er, I mean, switching. Or whatever they call it. If you're comfortable with that."

"I believe the term is 'versatile' and I might be."

John shifted in his chair, nodding. "Casual, was it?"

"Sorry?"

"The sex you had. Was it casual? Or--"

"No."

"Oh. Oh, right. Good. Wow. So...you've been in a relationship, then?" Somehow, this seemed to be far more staggering.

"There have been two. In fact." Sherlock apparently didn't realize the magnitude of this bombshell he had just dropped. /Two/ relationships? And he'd never even hinted at ANYTHING regarding them? Sherlock finally took offense to John's slackened jaw when it refused to reshut, or perhaps more so to the errant sip still pooled behind John's bottom teeth. "Is that really so surprising?"

"No!" John spluttered, swallowing and coughing, wiping the drink from his chin with the back of his hand. "No. I suppose I wasn't expecting...well...I don't know what I didn't expect. Certainly not that. You've never wanted to talk about...any of...but that's good. Right? That's helpful. If I can ask questions...that would be...good." 

Sherlock lifted his shoulder with a small shrug. "I've deleted most of the data." 

The pause following was so long that John worried that the suddenly palpable information of Sherlock's previous love life had gone the way of the solar system until Sherlock snapped forth from his mind, as if he'd been hunting his Mind Palace for ghosts. "My first sexual encounter involved a boy by the name of Eric Crenshaw. I was nineteen. He was my boyfriend at the time." 

This was a good start. John tried to be softly encouraging, like kindling a fire. "Where'd you meet him?"

"He was living and working at a house in Camden, which served as a distribution center for narcotics. He did lifting, loading, and unloading. And although he was hired for his muscle; he was patently useless in fistfights. I had just voluntarily released myself from the latest rehabilitation clinic Mycroft had checked me into and immediately went to ground to find my next high. If you're going to keep making that face at me John, I'd prefer to stop speaking about it."

John's hand flew up in surrender. "No. Sorry. I'm not making a face. Just...go on. What did he look like? This Eric Crenshaw?" He asked instead, committing the name to memory for whatever purpose. Keeping his face very still.

"You mean aesthetically? Because of course that would be of interest to you. He was brunette, athletic, he had freckles. I suppose he fit into the societal construct of one who would be considered handsome, and I believe at the time I had considered such a triviality significant.

"Behaviourally he had manifested a tic that he would unconsciously perform when he was nervous, where he would press his palms together like this. What he had in looks however, contrasted greatly against the manner of his speech. He spoke with a heavy Cockney accent, sometimes it was so thick I couldn't understand him, though at times he claimed he could not understand /me/, but he was rather an idiot. The pronouncement of his alveolar consonants on the occasions when he was smoking marijuana alone were enough to-" John's bewildered look broke his traction. "What now?"

"So, hang on a minute." John interjected. "You were rich as a kid, yeah? Went to a private school?"

"Yes. You know this already." Sherlock was itching from head to toe, talking about this. For once in the position of having his brain flayed open. Made all the more alarming as it was he /himself/ doing the cutting.

And then a thought occurred to him suddenly, which prompted an attack. "What /is/ it with your ridiculously prejudicial views on wealth, John! I'm already well aware of your coming from destitution, seeing as how you beat me over the head about it every time we get a bill! Is it really so important to you? Does it comfort you to consistently remind yourself of your rank in the monetary system juxtaposed against me? Yes. I had money. There, I said it. Are you happy? If you're about to tell me how my being birthed into a higher social class should have had more of an influence on my chosen vices--"

"Take it easy Sherlock. That's not at all what I meant. I'm just trying to understand." John cut in calmly, doing his best to ignore the sharp flint in Sherlock's voice. Knowing it was misguided. "All I meant was that YOU being how you are. Like how you've probably been all of your life. All..." he waved his hand broadly in the direction of what he couldn't find words to describe. Allowing it to represent the way Sherlock's tailored pants caught tightly around his one thigh casually thrown over the other. How he had his sky colored shirtsleeves rolled neatly up to his elbows, buttons straining to hold together across his broad, flat chest. Most pointedly including that fluted, delicate wrist slowly twisting the fat glass of scotch around in rhythmic loops, letting riptides of amber roll around its curves. Absolutely unable to put that into words.

Because all of it was easier than saying straight out that Sherlock was positively gorgeous. Absolutely stunning. And definitely a creature of incomparable sex. Which when speaking of Sherlock's mental processes and abilities could keep John crooning on all day long, but finding the admonitions regarding Sherlock's physical appearance to be expressed audibly seemed to have met the limitations of John's British rectitude. "...All /that/. And you chose just some regular bloke to be with?"

"Oh." Sherlock's ferocity quelled as recognition crested on his face, light eyes cutting a sharp path between them. "Oh. I see. You were laboring under the false impression that I had a specific type of male to which I applied sexual predilections to, didn't you? You assumed my choice of bedmate would only come from the men in whose company I frequented and therefore could only be interested in persons of my own, what...status?"

"A ten marries a ten. Seven to a seven. I'm still pretty sure that's how the world works." John chuckled, palming the back of his own neck with embarrassment. "So that's, uh, exactly what I thought, actually. Sorry." He just failed to even consider someone from a lower class to even have been a candidate on the radar to the man who felt that all of humanity was beneath him. "Keep talking though. I want to know more."

"For all your posturing on knowing human beings so well, how is it that I seem to continually surprise you, hm?"

"Because you're a marvel." John said simply and then immediately felt silly with the words hanging in the air between them. He wished he could have snatched the sentiment back, but it was done and Sherlock didn't seem to mind. If anything, he could blame the scotch. "Tell me more about Eric. Was he ...nice?"

Sherlock found his place in recounting and leant back to the crush of his chair. "There's hardly more to tell. Eric was a good companion. He treated me well and saw to it that I was properly cared for. Though his mollycoddling could be oppressive at times, the way yours is." He feigned ignorance to John's arching eyebrows. "It was during my time with him that I began creating my Mind Palace."

"Was he the one to break it off then?" Sherlock gave a nod of appreciation to John's obvious attentiveness concerning sentiment.

"In a way. Eric preferred me sober, I preferred the cocaine. I was able to think properly while high. I had perfected my solution to a concentrate of seven percent, an amount ideally suited to..." but he trailed off, as this wasn't about /that/ aspect of his life and John had been keeping his promise about not passing judgement. Sherlock cleared his throat and tried again. "Eric came to his decision to separate when a murder took place at a pub we frequented. I had been inclined to utilize my methods of deduction, such as they were. 

"After all, it was my first encounter with a dead human body in person and it felt like a natural reaction. Eric, however, did not understand my preoccupation with investigating the facts. He refused to think properly on the matter. It was then that he shut down and turned me away. Preferring to drink. The irony is not lost on me, of course. 

"Shortly after that Mycroft ordered a raid on the house where we had been living. I propositioned his release from jail with my promise that I would remain in the care of my brother and I never saw Eric again."

Sherlock let it settle like a layer of fresh snow between them, got himself and John another drink each and retook his place in his chair. He felt a small release in telling his story, having kept it bottled up and hidden in the oft forgotten passage in his brain. 

He rewarded himself by stretching out his feet just enough to where the tuberosity of his fifth metatarsal touched John's own tuberosity, clad as it was in ugly green and blue striped socks. He took a long pull and bowled into the last hurdle of John's patient waiting.

"The second and last person to which I attempted to form a relationship with was a man named Victor Trevor. We attended the same university."

"Victor Trevor." John repeated. "What happened with him?" Sherlock could tell from the millisecond too long it took for him to blink, that John was feeling the effects of the scotch, only exacerbated by his empty stomach. He was sitting more loosely with his ankles crossed, but his shoulder was still curled into him, as if to protect it. As he had for a long while now. He needed to solve that tonight. John's stubbornness was enough for the both of them and he needed him well for the case.

The omissive lie he'd told John about deleting his time with Eric was only partially true, the whole truth being that his perpetual cocaine dependency at the time had left a sort of miasmal fog to the whole affair. But with Victor, his memory was steeped in stark contrast. As clear as if he'd just lived it yesterday. It was one that Sherlock both clung to and reviled, unable to redact it for fear of losing one of the most vital elements that had made him who he was. 

It was the first time in his adult life that he had truly been himself. And as a result, it had turned disastrous.

Sherlock felt the best method for this particular story was in his practiced stream of consciousness, knowing it to be as good a protection as his Belstaff to his character. He fell into it easily: "We were roommates, initially, and I spent the summer with him and his father at his family estate in Norfolk at their behest. 

"He...Victor was very encouraging of my work, which was still in its infancy at the time. He did, after everything that happened, inspire me to put my methods to more profitable use. Though I suspect now that his yearly invitations to the manor were more a means to keep an eye on me and my chemical use, rather than in want of my direct company. To this day it would not surprise me to learn of Mycroft having some involvement in the whole matter. 

"Nevertheless, being naive as I was, I supposed him to be the closest approximation of what I could call a friend. Which occasionally tipped into the 'friend with benefits' category if such an insipid analogy can be used. The only condition was that his father was never to find out. Victor stood to inherit the mass of Victor Senior's private wealth and property upon his death, and should a man who readily dropped the words 'shirt-lifter' and 'poofter' during casual conversation over dinner discover us...well, all would have been lost. Victor was kind to me, in his own way. Callous when it counted. It was good for a time." 

John blinked at the trepidation in his friend's voice, but dared not to interrupt. Swearing that he could just make out a slight tremble to go along with that low, aching timbre. He wanted very much to touch him. Soothe the worry out of those long, blonde bones. 

"What did he look like?"

Sherlock's mouth quirked minutely. "You'll be happy to know that he fit squarely within your opinion of whom you assumed I would be interested in. He was six foot six and solidly built. Black. Worldly and well educated. He had brown eyes and short black hair. I admit that he was and still remains a large influence on my wardrobe choices."

John's face wrinkled with a loose smirk, letting Sherlock continue at his own pace. 

Sherlock, for his part, steeled himself against the less wonderful half of his story. "During my second summer of staying with him, Victor appealed for me to look into the circumstances involving a man who was black mailing his father. An old acquaintance who had invited himself to live on the estate with us and was abusing the Trevors' hospitalities. 

"Upon my investigations, I inadvertently revealed Victor Senior to be a fraud who'd passed his son on an entirely false name, an embezzled fortune upon which his father had built the Trevor dynasty, and revealed Victor Senior as number seven on Interpol's fugitives list. Needless to say, I exposed the secrets that existed to send my friend into financial and emotional ruin." He said all this through a mouth that fell, when closed, into a line so sharp it rivaled his violin's strings.

He looked down into his scotch. "To make matters worse - and though I still consider them to be wholly pertinent deductions, if perhaps, mistimed - my discoveries resulted in a previously unknown heart condition that had been manifesting itself in Victor Senior for some time to induce a stroke, which was followed promptly by his death. The black mailer fled soon after and in short, it became the end of Victor and my ...relationship. His father's funeral was to be our final meeting."

"Oh." John's mouth formed the shape, though the word was barely a whisper. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock."

Silence settled again for a very long while between them. John watching Sherlock stare into his tumbler, afraid to disrupt the solemn moment and unguarded expression on his friend's face. The rarity of such a thing as it was made John think that Sherlock had purposely not thought of Victor Trevor for a very, very long time.

John pressed the curve of his foot more solidly against Sherlock's, swallowed the last of his last drink and slowly stood, having all the pieces he needed to now put Sherlock's past romantic life together and venture forward in their own attempt. Make it better. When Sherlock finally looked up, his gaze was raw crystal.

John felt loose and warm and wholly grateful that this little keyhole peek had even been allowed to take place. It became obvious then, that Sherlock failed to begin relationships simply because they ended up as disappointments, choosing an easier road to avoid them altogether. He made a little motion for Sherlock to stand.

The lanky man finished his glass before setting it down, standing fluidly, tipping his head over John's as the doctor licked his lips expectantly. They could have heard a pin drop on the carpet beneath them. 

"John?" Sherlock's voice was low, barely more than a rumble.

"Yes?" John raised his hands and let them float, asking to touch but refraining.

"You must understand that Eric and Victor...that in the time I spent with them, they were only ever allowed a facsimile of myself."

"I gathered."

"I am not like that now. You will have to bear witness to all of me."

"Think I've done fairly well so far." John smirked and his interest did not wane.

Sherlock swallowed. "This case is important to me, John. It comes first."

"I know."

"You will not interfere with my feelings on it. Just as it will not interfere with my feelings about you. These things are to remain separate within me. You have to understand that."

"I do. I understand."

They were an inch apart now, building heat in each other's eyes. Sherlock's blazed with pale fire, while John's roiled dark like the sulfur vents at the bottom of the sea. They lived as two things purely elemental, opposite and true.

"And you will still have me?"

"Yes. Of course yes."

"John?" He leaned in closer, their breaths hot and musky and curling together sweet and rich, imbued with scotch and possibility. "May I?"

"May you what?" 

Sherlock bent lower, snaking a long and sinewed arm around the back of John's shoulder, allowing John's hands to curl softly around his biceps. Long white fingers starfished against the stiff column of John's cervical vertebrae, tipped twenty degrees back for access.

John tipped his chin higher, acquiescing with every tremulous atom of his being. Sherlock's breath was hot and damp on his face. "Yes..."

There was a bright sudden burst of indescribable pain and John's vision blew out into a high, white frequency, pulsating with opalescent, flashing stars. His surroundings dissolved into nothing but a claustrophobic swath of miles and miles and miles of agony. And he was the sudden center; the heart, the eye of a raucous and terrible storm. 

His world funneled down into that tenacious heel of hand pressing firmly into the mottled mess of his left subscapularis tendon. Over the puckering, starburst scar that lie just beneath his clavicle, where all his ghosts took shelter.

All this time, Sherlock had known. Had seen John in pain and had been helpless to fix it. 

He was helping him now.

John didn't know what sensation came back to him first; each overlapping as all at once he was slumping, staggering, fighting, and moaning in a terrible, shameless voice that was not his own. A strong arm held him upright, large hands fought his protest, his face was buried against riotous black curls onto to which he openly wept through the pain. 

All the while, through the maelstrom, whispering right against the shell of his ear while his muscles thundered, was the unstoppable voice of Sherlock breaking through to him: "shh, John. Let me help you. Please. Shh. Let me help." 

After a while, the molestation subsided, his sobbing ebbed, and he was lead bonelessly to the couch offering no protest. His legs and insides having turned to jelly. His shoulder ached maliciously, but even still it was a new kind of ache. A sharper, necessary one. One that when it faded, would fade away completely and leave him in a peace for longer than he had ever been granted.

Sherlock took his torso into his lap, folding him up and tipping his long jaw against John's temple, taking long pulls of breath to lead John to do the same. Breathing together. Slowing their hearts into unanimity. John's spine felt severed from the apricot of his brain, bundled like a child.

"You have been in pain for some time." Sherlock whispered and it felt like he was speaking of so much more.

"Yes." John's voice was raw. His eyes gummy with tears.

"You do not have to be."

"I know."

"You have suffered a long while John Watson. Let me help you."

"Yes." He slumped against the warmth, against the chest, against the arms that were his world. His eyelids sliding closed as he allowed a sweet, peaceful feeling begin to take him.

"That card, given to you by the Japanese Chairman. Do you remember it?" 

John did, but just barely. He remembered it most sliding back under the door. "Yes."

"Would you still like to know what it was?"

John reveled in the vibrations Sherlock's voice made in his chest, simultaneously amazed and drifting. "Shoot."

"It was the recommendation for a masseuse who specialized in Gua sha." He continued when John made a noise to explain. "It's the traditional Chinese practice of scraping the skin with a smooth object resulting in lividity. It's believed to bring unhealthy elements to the surface and stimulate blood flow at the sight of an injury. He could tell you were having trouble with your shoulder."

"That obvious, hm?"

"You're nothing but obvious. That's, I think, why I find you so intriguing."

"Oh?"

"Most people try to hide aspects of themselves, thinking it will make them a better person or more well liked as an individual within a group dynamic. But they hide themselves poorly. You, however, are an open book, even without my abilities others see who and what you are as easily as it if it were broadcast. You have no secrets and yet you are unfathomable."

John stayed silent, not wanting to break the strangely comfortable moment between them with conjecture.

"John?" Sherlock said softly, after a while. He pressed his face against John's, swiping his jaw against his tears like war paint. Like he couldn't help it.

"Hm?" He'd caught John right before he started to seep into sleepiness. And it was a good thing too.

"If you would be amenable, I would very much like to fellate you now. Assuming you have recovered enough."

John's eyes popped open under the rush of adrenaline. "Sherlock?" He shuffled back as the arms fell loose, hissing when he moved his shoulder a little too quickly. "What about your rules?" Sherlock's mountainous cheekbone shined with his moisture in the dawnlight.

One of Sherlock's hands had fallen limp on John's thigh, seeming to spring to life as he found John's eyes and saw John's internal approval, despite his verbal hesitancy. He let his palm stroke slowly up and down the muscle, hard enough to not be mistaken as anything else. His thumb dragging on the in-seam. 

And something in those starlight eyes relayed that no further argument would be broached. "The rules say nothing about my performing a sexual act exclusively upon you as restitution for the hurt I have just recently caused you." Came the simple reply. "And if you are still concerned over your purported performance issues; it will be a far simpler task to relieve it from your hands completely with no expectation of reciprocity."

John fought his smile at the analyticality of it all and the deep, bright hunger that bloomed throughout his body. He trusted Sherlock to care for him. "Alright."

Sherlock's chin tipped down and John met him. Mouths pushing, tongues coaxing as they sipped the heady taste of scotch from each other's lips, wrapped up in serendipity. John put one arm around Sherlock's shoulder and couldn't help the groan that escaped him when a long, beautiful hand swiped high and cupped him through his jeans. His whole spine going icy cold while his loins filled with heat. Indecisive goosebumps raising up on his arms. He broke away reluctantly. "But not here. Upstairs. My room."

Sherlock blinked rapidly.

"Bathroom's not turned into a bloody jungle when we need to use it and we can break in the new sheets." He smirked and rose and held his hand out, leading Sherlock up the stairs and through the threshold, taking a seat on the side of his bed and only having a moment to admire his new high thread count bedding before he couldn't care.

"Back. Against the headboard." Sherlock instructed and John immediately obliged, setting up pillows to lean on behind him. He pressed a thumb into his own shoulder experimentally, plying the tender muscles. It felt ...new. He watched Sherlock fall onto him, a new sort of hunger filling those incredible eyes as he made short work of John's buttons and flies. Straight to the point.

Nimble fingers peeled down his jeans and pants as one, loosing the dark blonde thatch beneath his navel and the delicate flushing flesh of his prick, which lay docile against his thigh. At the draft of cool air, John gasped.

"Lift." Sherlock instructed and pulled his trousers completely off when John's hips floated, dropping them to the floor. "And that, off," he motioned to John's shirt, "and for God's sake John, get those out of my sight." He wafted a whole hand at John's striped socks as though they were an abomination to fashion itself.

John chuckled and began unbuttoning, leaving his socks for last. "If I'm naked, you're naked."

To watch Sherlock undress was like watching the sun rise. Pale white expanses only seeming to to stretch on forever as more and more was revealed. Hot spots were flushed with blood, as pink as morning. His body was a lick of sinew, skin wrapped tight around a knitted ribcage that masked and unmasked the subtle ripple of ribs with each breath, narrow waist arrowing down to where his manhood mimicked his body, long and slim, topped with a shock of black hair.

He smirked as he found John staring unabashadly at him, hands frozen in the midst of sliding loose buttons, still besocked. "Do you require assistance?" He asked with a cocked eyebrow and sprang when John only nodded in reply. 

He took residence between his Veed legs, resuming the hedonistic plunder of the doctor's eager mouth while John finished shucking his shirt, reserving special tenderness for his left arm. Sherlock used his own impossible arms to reach back and beneath, pulling off those hated socks before they disgusted him completely, much to John's amusement. He threw them with contempt at the floor, muttering. "Abominable things."

Sherlock rocked back after a while, leaving John panting and flushed with kisses, his eyes opening to inky black pools and laid down between John's calves. He used his hands to knead the soft skin at John's inner thighs, plying his adductor muscles, smearing his fingertips along the slashing length of his sartorius, externally mapping John's sublime architecture while John splayed his legs a little bit wider around him and remained none the wiser.

Looking up the taut length of John's body, he met the doctor's eyes and smiled when John licked his lips. His Adam's apple bobbing tenuously. He was going to have to keep John focused on the physicality of what they were about to do and not let him slip into self-consciousness. Or John would quickly lose his nerve and perceive it as his feared inadequacy. 

"What do you enjoy, John Watson?" He asked seductively, dropping his voice into a rippling baritone and squeezing both hands into firm meat simultaneously. 

John gasped. "You tell me."

Amused and intrigued, Sherlock looked him over, reading him the way he'd done so many times before, but now to the freshly peeled back layer of naked John held on display.

"You are a conscientious lover, one who puts other's pleasure above your own. Just as you do your life. You are a student of medicine and therefore have considerable knowledge as to the delicacies of human anatomy. A man with deadly fingers and the familiarity of each and every erogenous zone. Clever combination.

"You are virile, despite your untenable fears. Tactile and vocal. Plied by both physical and aural stimulation. And you are very clearly uncircumcised. Meaning that you are far more sensitive than those who have had their foreskin removed. That, in conjunction with what you consider secret, but I now know to be anything but; your covetous adoration of my hands, it would be of little surprise that if I were to do something like this..." Sherlock took a quick firm fistful of John's soft cock and simply held on. John's head thumped against the headboard as quickly as though he'd blacked out. His pelvis jumping and his breath coming out in a rush. "It would result in the desired effect."

"Hmnn." John breathed indiscriminately, having to blink his vision back into focus. He squinted down at Sherlock with one eye pinched shut. Grinning widely. Playing the game. "Anything else?"

"By my calculations, you are nine point three centimeters long and six point four centimeters in girth with a twelve degree arc while in a full state of arousal. You're proud of this, as well you should be. I imagine all your previous partners enjoyed the overly adequate fill of you /cock/."

That did it. The endcap consonants in the word 'cock' spilling so easily from that pink fleshed mouth about something so petty and self-centered but spoken with such earnest that it tipped the scales of interest into desire. "Oooohh Jeeeeezus. That shouldn't be working like that." John fidgeted, embarrassed, and felt the warm rush of blood pool straight into the sweet spot. Sherlock's flat hands resumed sliding up and down his thighs, swirling close to his groin and mussing his pubic hair fitfully. John panted and his abdominal muscles clenched appreciatively when he strayed close. "You're a bad man."

But Sherlock didn't hear. From his position, he was able to witness a close up of John's cock, watching breathless as the monolith rose like a Great Old One summoned by his words. Rapt as the corpora cavernosa expanded within, thick and bright and humming with blood. Flushing darkly in its sweet ascent. 

The shiny pink underside of the glans bobbed forth, penultimately freed from its heavy blanket of skin and like a brace hitching up the tight silvery flesh, the delicate bridge of the frenulum pulled taut true to form what had just been a jumble of docile flesh. Up and up it rose, blunt and hot until the member grew too tall, too heavy and proud and tipped like a felled tree to thump softly against John's belly. Gorgeous gorgeous gorgeous. Even Sherlock could appreciate the organic mechanics of the human body when he chose to.

John laughed at Sherlock's intense observation, which was abruptly turned into a cracking gasp as Sherlock's broad hand encircled him firmly again, wetted by a lick, and gave it a cursory stroke to keep it hungry. From then on, Sherlock moved as if this were a wholly new creature in the realm of discovery. Like he'd been starved at the sight of another man's cock. His kaleidoscope eyes never leaving that spot as he explored the area surrounding it with fingertips and resolute presses of his mouth.

John's neck went to water, letting his head fell back with a thunk as he allowed himself to give up watching and simply /feel/. Gasping harshly as Sherlock took him into his mouth without any hesitation, testing the limitations of John's impressive girth in the confines of his hot, wet jaw. And even if it all turned out to be the impractical investigations of a scientist detective; to John it felt akin to pure carnal rapture. 

It had been SO long since someone else had touched him in this way. His prick so much ignored, even by his own hand, that he'd hardly had a wank that he could describe as anything more than desultory since he'd come home. Languishing in hospital once the virus had cleared his bloodstream, ravished by fever, he had wallowed in the vast depths of his brokenness and isolation. 

As he came back to himself, John noticed he was grunting and gasping wantonly as Sherlock sucked him. His fingers having found their way curled around the front of Sherlock's ears, squeezing his temples and setting a rhythm to which Sherlock seemed only obligingly to match. John stopped just as the deep sharp feeling resonated through his pelvis like the beginnings of a conflagration, tugging at Sherlock's head. Too soon. Too soon.

"It's perfectly fine to ejaculate," Sherlock unsheathed his mouth with a lascivious slurp, "it is rather the point."

"No." John growled stubbornly, keeping Sherlock away by stiffening his wrists. "I'm not ready to go off like a bloody teenager. I want it to last. Come up here and kiss me some more."

Sherlock did, meeting John's curled torso that couldn't wait for the time it took him to move. This time, Sherlock let John lead the mission of their mouths. Allowing him full access to the territory that most often had people steering well clear of him and let him take his fill. John needed this.

His strident, wide-jawed foraging left stubble burns across Sherlock's cheeks and lips. Not at all surprised to feel John's pelvis thrusting lightly against the taut bulk of his thigh, bumping Sherlock's flaccid cocktip occasionally with his hip. He pressed his leg down so that John could have better friction, resulting in an appreciative moan being made into his mouth. John' coaxing hands demanded that Sherlock quit recording data and participate equally in the feast before him, which he did.

Kissed near to the point of asphyxiation, John finally loosed his grip on Sherlock's face and let him roam down slowly. Leaving one small hand cradled beneath the jut of his jaw. Not guiding, or forcing, or leading. Simply /holding/. Keeping. 

Sherlock was utterly surprised when that action caused a warm pulse to arrow into his groin. The idea of being kept. He acknowledged this feeling within him, but knew that nothing more arousing would come of it.

Sherlock pecked softly at the pocket behind John's jaw, pressing against the pulse point and felt it hammering strongly beneath his featherlight breaths. He walked his lips down the slide of John's sternocleidomastoid, licking into his suprasternal notch and scraping his teeth out across the high wire of John's clavicle. 

He purposely traveled the way opposite from John's scar, not wanting to exacerbate his work no matter how he longed to map it with his tongue, for there would be another time. He moved on to the cap of his deltoid, discovering it with his teeth. The new robin's egg-coloured sheets spreading out flat beneath the golden shelf of flesh gave the appearance of cliffside ocean. And Sherlock Holmes' was its keeper.

He was sprawled over half of John's body. Keeping one of his leg's immobile, with the epsilon axe of John's hip digging up into his guts. Sherlock purposely left his waste touching the side of John's prick. Wanting to keep it desperate for more friction but unable to achieve it as he moved. But the idea was certainly working, if the slight humping of John's pelvis were any indication. 

Sherlock worked down and around. Lingering. Studying. The accompanying small hand against his face finally having no choice but to pull Sherlock back to task when he stayed for far too long licking between the subtle topography of John's serratus anterior and latissimus dorsi. Because - much to Sherlock's dismissal - supposedly he was doing nothing but 'tickling the shit' out of John's armpit. 

In repentance, Sherlock climbed his obliques like cobblestone steps and made John's soft chuckle strike up into a harsh gasp when he took a soft bite around his areola and laved. John's fingers tightened spasmodically into Sherlock's jawbone, little fingers stroking into his artery before being forced to still. Repositioning and adjusting. But never, ever leaving.

Another pulse of that foreign heat tunneled down Sherlock's body. Quick and wicked and never enough. But interesting all the same.

He made quick work on the plain of John's belly, the small wrinkles of folded skin. Smearing his mouth over everything he could reach and finally secured in his knowledge that he'd stalled all he could, he leant up onto his elbows and asked in a hoarse, dark voice. "Enough time has passed, I take it? I'm allowed to make you come and you'll keep your dignity intact?"

Speaking of indignity; John was a panting mess beneath him. Most of his torso was slick with saliva, which was already evaporating quickly into the cool bedroom air, leaving tiny prickles of goose flesh dancing out across his skin. His mouth was open while his eyes remained shut, adrift in the constellation of his own awakened nerve endings. His hair stood up at the back, spraying up like silver feathers. 

His small dark nipples were peaked into buds. His cock lumbering tall between his legs. It pulsed like a metronome set to the rhythm of blood. Oozing a single blurb of clear precome to snake down his length.

John's whimper was the only reply he could muster, feeling those violin-bred hands stroking idly at the territory of his iliopsoases. Like pale sharks circling their prey. 

With his consecrating nod, Sherlock took him back into his mouth like a key fitting into a lock and he lost most cognitive thought after that. His fingers stayed planted beneath Sherlock's face, feeling the inner workings of his throat and tongue as it laved and curled and fucked John's cock with deft precision. Bobbing in his hand.

He wished he could be more proactive. Return the favor. Wanting to run his hand down the smooth of flesh of Sherlock's back while Sherlock sucked him. Wanting to participate. 

But instead John opened his eyes. HAVING to see and confirm that what he was feeling was really /truly/ happening. So he lifted his aching, unencumbered shoulder as far as he could to sweep the curling fringe back from Sherlock's forehead, squeezing his other hand gently to cause Sherlock to look up beneath dark brows as he felt the end coming.   
The effect was staggering. 

So shattering that John couldn't keep himself from falling right into the plushness of that slack mouth curled around sharp teeth. Those ice-coloured eyes boring into him while that hot silken tongue worked him towards devastating completion.

Three more pulls sent him tumbling, careening, falling and flying over the edge into orgasm. He let himself go down Sherlock's mouth in three heavy, almost painfully full spurts. Claiming the mouth that took everything and gave nothing back. Claiming it for his own.

And the rest of existence fizzled away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright. lots of notes:
> 
> oo1. Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce are (to me) the orginal Holmes and Watson. but I couldn't leave out the incomparable Jeremy Brett and David Burke as Grenada Holmes and Watson either. so I threw them both in there.
> 
> oo2. the "oh my god" song that earns John a groin squeeze is a hat tip to 'In the Flesh' in reference to Scary Monsters and Nice Sprites by Skrillex that they use in one of their episodes. cause that show is wonderful.
> 
> oo3. Miles is a character from another movie Mr. C is in that i've borrowed for nefarious purposes from Third Star. I just really liked the parallel of his jumpers in comparison to John's. so I stole him.
> 
> oo4. I imagine the tattooed-neck man as looking like Ben Whishaw.
> 
> oo5. Eric Crenshaw is the creation of Basser whose story Can't Rewind Now We've Gone Too Far http://archiveofourown.org/works/594142 is part of my headcanon for Sherlock's childhood because it's so damn good.
> 
> oo6. and my Victor Trevor was pictured as Eamon Walker. because guh! he's gorgeous.
> 
> is that it? I think that's it...


	8. The Adventures of the Heartbroken Man

John surfaced slowly, skimming the world just between consciousness and sleep, but still caught in the undercurrent of blissful release. His brain kept getting pulled under, only to flash back above like flint against metal, trying to ignite. 

The bed jostled as Sherlock moved, his narrow chest sliding over the top of John, using him as an anchor as he fished something from his shirt on the floor, before moving back to sit with his ankles crossed in lotus position with his bony knees propping up his wrists. His penis lay flaccid in the dark nesting of curled hair, sheathed away in the ruddy foreskin. 

John heard the strike of the match against the book, the hiss of a burgeoning flame and the sizzle of lit paper before he opened his eyes fully. His brain coming back to itself as he smelled smoke. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Having a cigarette. Obviously." Sherlock said, taking a deep, indulgent drag and letting it out like it was the best thing he'd ever tasted.

"I thought you were doing well on the patches."

"I am." Sherlock said, meeting his eyes. "But it's customary to have a post-coital cigarette. Don't you keep up on current trends?"

John chuckled, reaching for the closest item of clothing, which happened to be his own shirt wrinkled by the headboard, and wiped himself dry. "Current trends dictate that smoking's bad for you. So it's pretty obvious you don't keep up on them at all."

"Their loss." Sherlock shrugged and took another drag. Afterwards, he raised an eyebrow to John, before extending the cigarette in offering. "Care for a stimulant after your dopamine rush, doctor?"

John challenged him with his eyes momentarily, licking his lips, and took the cigarette anyway.

He watched John take a tentative drag and dissolve quickly into a bout of bronchial coughing. John handed it back to the grinning man, thumping his fist against his chest to get his lungs cleared and make the burning sensation stop.

"Now I remember why I quit." He wheezed, after the worst of it had dissipated.

"You smoked?" Sherlock perked up in slight astonishment.

John smiled, glad he could surprise him. "I did." He threw the calf of his left leg up over the knee of his right, laying one forearm across his brow and the other spread onto his belly as his coughing fit ceased. "But I was never any good at it. There wasn't much to do in Afghanistan but fix up people, smoke, and wait to get shot at." 

"Or get shot." Sherlock added.

"Yeah. Apparently I'm only good at two of those things."

"Very good, from what I hear." Sherlock corrected, taking another deep drag and blowing it out, before stuffing the filter end in between John's first and second toe, using it as a temporary holder as he pushed himself up from the bed.

John grumbled, but couldn't be arsed to move. "Where are you going?" 

Sherlock simply leaned over for an indulgent kiss and disappeared down the stairs.

John scrubbed at his face and listened after the detective's slapping feet as he walked about. The floorboards giving away his position in the flat before returning.

"No." John stated suddenly as Sherlock reappeared. Arms laden.

"What?" Sherlock threw himself down with a bounce and retook his spot on his belly, facing John's feet. He reclaimed the cigarette and ashed it into John's RMC mug which he'd also snatched up in his sojourn. John looked to the ceiling for strength at the sound of rustling paper. An expandable folder being jostled open and used as a platform.

"Absolutely not, Sherlock. You're not bringing case photos of dead people into the bed. No!"

"Why not?"

"Because I said so, that's why." John said in exasperation.

"How does that response hold any sort of authority?" Sherlock looked at him defiantly, the immovable cocked eyebrow, and relented. "Oh fine." And shoved the sheaf onto the floor with extra petulance. Most of the papers fell in a large stack with a thwump, while a couple floated down gently like leaves.

John smiled and gave his pert arse a comforting pat. "You can take them back down to the kitchen if you want. Otherwise you're already breaking your cardinal sin of mixing work and sex."

"There's no point in taking them to the kitchen. They're already up here." Sherlock mumbled into his folded arms. He let John catch hold of his ankle and enjoyed the feeling of John's thumb pressing lazy Morse code against the end of his fibula: 

... .... . .-. .-.. --- -.-. -.- / .... --- .-.. -- . ... / --. .. ...- . ... / .- -- .- --.. .. -. --. / .... . .- -.. //

Sherlock gave a snort and flopped his head over, facing John's feet, letting his eyes wander up from the doctor's blunt toes, up his fluted calves, to the knobbly crests at his patellae, before following his lean, furry thighs back down into the shadowed area of his buttocks. 

He studied the subtle topography of John's muscles as he shifted around in the most miniscule ways in the afterglow. The slide of his hamstrings. The flex of his toes. One of them had clear signs that it had been broken at some point in his youth, presumably from football. There were old silver scars dotting his shins that told of having been acquired in his teenage years, when his sports interests had turned to rugby. John, no doubt, having to have joined in an effort to confirm his masculinity, when puberty hadn't graced him with a height increase past 5'6". 

Above the tree line of hair growth from where his combat boots had chafed his ankle skin smooth, his legs were very pale, like the belly of a fish, while the globes of his arse were startlingly bright by contrast. As etiolated as Sherlock himself. Secreted away from the sun.

... .... . .-. .-.. --- -.-. -.- / .... --- .-.. -- . ... / .... .- ... / .- -. / .- -- .- --.. .. -. --. / .... . .- -.. //

"Come up here." John said with a contented sigh, giving a beckoning squeeze to his metatarsals.

Sherlock stubbed out his half finished cigarette, preoccupied. Barely hearing him. "No. I like the view."

"What? What view?" It took John a minute to realize what he'd meant. "Sherlock! Don't stare at it." He tried to cover himself with his hand, which Sherlock easily batted away, grasping his ankles to keep him from dropping his legs. 

John's leg strength was impressive, even if somewhat diminished after orgasm. Putting up a struggle until he realized resistance was futile. Flushing with embarrassment, John subsided.

Confident, Sherlock slid John's feet apart a little more, opening up his legs to allow a better view of his dark prize. The morning light snaking in through the edges of the curtains did plenty to illuminate his view. John waved his knees in a slow sort of flapping motion, allowing Sherlock to look but obviously uncomfortable with the idea.

Each sway brought the waft of John's soap to Sherlock's nose. Some cheap bar of compressed fats and oils spiced liberally with the undercurrent of almonds that was usually quick to die away when he got out of the shower. But here in the calm and quiet, the utterly close, it was preserved in his last sweat like an insect in ember. Lingering.

"It's fascinating." 

John let out a flustered burst of laughter, which clenched his anus tightly, as if in a wink. Intriguing Sherlock even more. "No it's not! It's an arsehole. There's nothing interesting about that! Sherlock! Stop." 

"But it's yours."

"So what?"

And then Sherlock had an idea. "How long is your refractory period John?"

"Sorry?" He could hear the trepidation in John's voice.

"Studies suggest the average male has a refractory period of at least a half hour. I imagine yours would undoubtedly choose to be just as plebian..." his head popping up from between John's knees to find his friend looking at him with a worried frown. Sherlock mouthed at the inside of his thigh to reassure him, lip biting his way towards John's arse and lingering longer in the places that made John twitch. "I want to do an experiment."

John snorted in astonishment, his spell of concern abating to caution, "what experiment?" His face flushed bright red as Sherlock's lips plodded further and further down toward the damp marsh of his groin, detouring south long before he reached his groin. Judging by the severity of his flushing skin, Sherlock guessed that no one before had ever shown oral interest in John's backside. Shame, that.

"Truthfully, it would be more of an egregiously biased observational study, than an experiment," Sherlock corrected himself, his voice muffled against John's gracilis, "but I would like for you to indulge me."

"Like that's ever been an issue...just, could you please tell me what it involves before you--hey!" He involuntarily bucked as Sherlock shoved his face into the sweet dip where John's thigh met his arse cheek. Unable to reign himself back any longer. The savory sweet corollary aroma made him want to sink his teeth into John's flesh and bite down. He sought to be the first explorer into this virgin ground. Terra ignota for the taking.

John gasped and put a hand into the depths of his Sherlock's hair as hot breath ghosted across his balls, his foot involuntarily readjusting. He felt his cock begin to swell in anticipation, despite his trepidation. "Just tell me ...Sherlock, what the experi--ah!" Sherlock broke off his thought with an affectionate nuzzle, pressing his whole face in until his chin bumped John's cleft and his nose burrowed against his prostate, telling him without words what John already knew. "...Fine, just...ah! Christ. Be soft..." 

Given the permission he craved; Sherlock explored.

The wiry hairs peppering John's scrotum were an odd texture against Sherlock's papillae, long and coarse and unable to be kept flat, even with the application of extra saliva. The sac itself was loose and droopy like cloth and he used the tip of his tongue to burrow in and used the breadth to move it around. John couldn't catch all the sounds he was making and let out a series of breathy gasps.

John had always enjoyed it immensely when previous partners had paid attention to his testicles while giving him head. A supplemental grope or stroke to assist in his climb to orgasm. But this solitary attention paid only to his bollocks alone was stirring the blood hot heat in his body to positively volcanic temperatures. 

Sherlock pulled John's left testicle into his mouth, rolling it about, deciding it shared the same basic characteristics as that of a hard boiled egg. Getting a mouthful of the right one revealed the same, though it was slightly smaller to its companion. Sherlock wondered if the dominant trait of John's left hand had any influence on this particular differentiation and filed it away for later investigation.

John was panting somewhere above him now, eyes closed, head thrown back. His hand was tunneled through Sherlock's hair, clenching and flexing, but splaying loose in an attempt to not hurt him. And all of it solicited orally by Sherlock's heuristic personality, making Sherlock smirk.

Sherlock pulled both balls into his open mouth with incredible handless dexterity, rolling them against the cup of his tongue and eliciting an impassioned groan from the good doctor. But when he slurped in more of the thin, stretchy skin and gave all the spoils in his jaw a delicate bite, the testicles compressed and John seemed to jolt back to reality.

"Oh'mguh...Chrst!...ow Sherl--wha..." If only partially. With his words tilting halfway between surprise and pleasure, Sherlock probed at his perineum in apology with the tip of his tongue, deft around his mouthful. Each press of that organic button sending explosion after explosion up through his prostrate body, until John's dial of arousal could do nothing more than click over to eleven.

His heels dug into the mattress as Sherlock lapped at his dark flesh, so close to his hole that John was beginning worry that he might not make it to the intended terminus. He had to tell him. "I've never...we need...oh-ah...a condom. I'm not *ah!* going to..." The words were difficult to find with his mind splintering in four different directions. The most base was in an effort to avoid injury and keep his arse from bucking.

Sherlock paused in his ministrations, letting John's soft bits finally fall free to speak in a voice as deep and dark as penumbras. "John. Rest assured that prophylactics will not be necessary for this." Which took a moment to understand. Sherlock had not been planning on penile penetration at all.

A great stillness settled over John as his imagination assisted the silence. Sucking a breath in through his teeth in an effort to reply, only to have it dissolve into a gasp as Sherlock leant back down to resume his hedonistic debauchery. 

Sherlock palmed the left cheek of John's arse and slid his hand up until it met the crook of his knee, pushing his leg back against his belly. John resisted him for a moment, in his last throes of disbelief, before allowing Sherlock to fold it up against his torso, taking the hand tangled in his hair to hold it in place and then did the same with the other.

John whimpered when Sherlock sat up on his knees, wiped his chin with the back of his hand, and looked down to admire his work. In a momentary panic, John found he couldn't face him like this. Meet his eyes. Feeling a bit pathetic by having to turn his head away. But it was just /so/ much.

He was holding himself open, pinned in place like a specimen beneath glass. Naked and spread beneath the world's most observant man. 

Sherlock sensed John's tension and tried to reassure him from the darkness above. "You're doing very well John. You make an incredible test subject." If it was an attempt at humour, John didn't rise to it. He could do nothing more than release a huff of heavy breath. He was overwhelmed, sweat beading on his brow and upper lip. The ensuing silence making even Sherlock's worry palpable, and when he spoke next it was softer. John no doubt looked as though he was about to meet an executioner.

"John?" A strong hand wrapped itself around John's straining wrist to coax him out of his reverie. John fought his eyes to open, his head to turn. Each muscle required to do so felt cemented in place, locked tight in warring arousal and objection. He could stop this now, go back to before, tread ground that was already well trodden with one simple word.

His eyes opened for a momentary glance. One so quick he could barely register the shapes that made his overhead world, but like fate he found those lustrous knife eyes of Sherlock Holmes' looking down on him and with such a look of open hunger that it set John Watson atremble. He could not say the word. Would not.

"You're perfectly safe." Said the man who considered stating the obvious anathema. "But if you need me to stop, tell me so. You have complete control."

John sobbed, of all the responses he couldn't hope to dredge up becoming balled in a singular guttural sound. 

He /was/ safe.

He gave Sherlock one single nod and worked hard to fall limp in his hands. He'd only ever trusted one other person so completely before and now he knew for certain that he never would again. For it would be the death of him.

Sherlock made sure to keep his hands against John's legs as he leant back down, giving him a gauge as to where he was currently positioned, not wanting to startle him too badly.

Sherlock used the tip of his tongue first. A firm stroke up towards his scrotum and John shifted around a noise in his throat that couldn't make it past tightly bitten lips. John's body, despite its defenseless curl, tried to rock away, before it came back through sheer determination.

Wasting no time, knowing anticipation seemed to be worst than the actual act, Sherlock licked again, longer this time, with more applied in both pressure and amount and John gave another aborted sound that cracked that mouth just a little bit open as his chin canted up sharply. Making progress.

The pressure of Sherlock's tongue on the third attempt was absolute genius. It lapped and swirled, formed tight into a blunt tip to skirt along the alley of flesh between cock and anus. John's hips rocked spasmodically as Sherlock strayed close to his hole, crying out in surprise when he came too near. His sweaty palm having to readjust its hold on his knee as it had begun to slip. 

John took hold of his frantic breathing until it became a metronomic hissing through his nose. Trying to focus on the sensation rather than his fear. And after a minute, after bullying himself into the idea, John began to systematically lean into the tongue, seeking it out. That careful grazing and nipping at the tender aisle of perineum anchoring him together while it simultaneously took him apart. He found himself calming down and enjoying it.

/Wanting/ it.

"Yes?" Sherlock asked, his voice deep and raking and giving one final chance to call him off.

"Gah--Shrrrlo--" John was squirming with anticipation now, writhing in embarrassment, the veins in his neck standing out as he fidgeted. He was waffling on the precipice of a brand new world of satisfaction and the guilt of taboo, and he made his final decision in a breathy, choked voice: "Yes. Please."

He released his knees and threw his hands up over his face as Sherlock gave his arsehole its first ever lick. Most surprised by the sheer delight he found in its filth. The warm, wet sensation so shocking in the hot grin of his cleft, he had to desperately fight to keep from closing his legs.

Sherlock's tongue stayed in place, his hands coming up to hold John's hips still as his intentions gave way to kissing and suckling. Immediately, John tried to touch himself, wanting to disrupt the rawness of it all, the total realization that this was really happening and it might be more than he could handle, but he was met with long thin fingers gently squeezing his wrist and guiding them away.

"You're tampering with the data." Came a rumble against his arse cheeks, followed by an understanding kiss and another lave and then, suddenly, a partial trepanning. John yelled out in surprised delight and threw his palms back over his face as he relinquished himself to the sensational crash of arousal sweeping over him like a tsunami. A single hard pulse through his loins brought the full ache of blood to his prick.

Sherlock began a slow pattern: probe, kiss, suck, probe, kiss, suck, smashing them all together and stringing them apart at different paces. Working to get the tight sphincter to open to him, while his hands skidded up and down the tops of John's spread thighs. Surprised to find his own cock pulsing excitedly.

And as if he'd found the key, the right combination; John's most private area began to unfurl before him.

Sherlock pierced him shallowly now, experimentally. Getting pushed out instantaneously as the muscle constricted. A surprised groan crippled by a half pant emerged from John's mouth as he fought involuntarily against Sherlock's long starfished fingers. His heels skittering on the bedspread.

John thrashed and cried out more loudly as Sherlock did it again, more insistent this time and this time John pressed back towards him wantonly. "Hhmmmn. Sh'lock...please. Ah!" A sheen of sweat had broken out over his heaving chest. His cock weeping untouched against the soft curve of his clenched belly.

Sherlock did it once more, repositioning himself with his own arse in the air for a better angle, his penis tilting heavily beneath him and this time he did not draw back for a rest, he stayed in the tight little ring, pushing further and further in as it tried to close around him, wriggling it as much as would allow. 

"Oh my god...Shhhhr...oh...Christ...oh!"

Sherlock felt the tell-tale quiver begin in John's thighs and was proud. John's climax was approaching sooner than he had anticipated. He probed and pushed, reshaping his tongue as it was allowed deeper access inside the man. He experimented with the muscle's shape, expanding and contracting it. Utilizing its malleability to the utmost.

Finding a cooperative rhythm between the two of them, John pressed down as Sherlock threaded in, corkscrewing wildly into the smooth, taut entrance for as long as John could stand, and then allowing John to retreat from the penetration, but never fully away from his wet touch.

As the tremble worsened, Sherlock gripped John's cheeks more solidly, digging his fingertips in until they dipped into tight muscle.

"Oh God!" Growled John, his voice broken in his throat, leaking out through his muffling hands. "Oh Sherlock! Nnnhg. Sto--don't stop!"

Their ministrations grew erratic, mismatched before Sherlock took over full control with a possessive growl. He lifted John's lower half clear off the bed, heaving John's knees up over his shoulders before he skewered him truly, powerfully, as deep as he could go. His nose tip burrowed into John's walnut-textured sac. The tight, heavy weight of his legs grounding him like a yoke as John locked his ankles together. Knees in the shape of a kite around him with his heels stabbing bruises into his cervical spine. Absolutely keening.

Into John.

"Oh God!...Sher--yes!..." His voice was an incoherent wail.

His John.

"Shrrrrlo...Sherlock!...mnng...ohmuhfuuuuck I'm coming...oh shit! I'm coming!" 

/My John./

And John's climax came to fruition.

All of John's insides spasmed at once, rocking on his shoulders. Milky arcs of semen pulsating out from his untouched cock ...ONE, two, threefourfive! They spattered against his torso, seeking each other like mercury to pool in the soft valley of his stomach and make a breakaway towards his chest.

Sherlock held him through it, kept him tipped up and suspended in the aftershocks, until strong thighs tightened around his head with a claustrophobic whoosh of air. He lowered John against the bed and pulled himself up over the panting man's hips, admiring the spill of spunk.

John's hand groped drunkenly until he could put a loose fist in Sherlock's hair while Sherlock drug the tip of his tongue through the ejaculate, splitting it apart. "Jesus." John picked his head up to see, but it fell back again, too heavy to keep aloft. "Aw Christ."

Sherlock agreed by making an obnoxious slurping noise as he vacuumed the viscous liquid from the tiny lake from John's navel. The resultant laugh and tight fingers on his curls brought him scrambling up to meet John's mouth. "You are--oof!" John pressed his tongue into Sherlock's mouth as he settled over top him, tasting himself, "bloody incredible."

Sherlock breathed out an ambient laugh.

"Thank you." John said almost reverently. As soft and hushed as a prayer. There was the heavy feeling of so much meaning wrapped up in those two simple words that Sherlock didn't feel it necessary to respond. So he simply hummed an agreement against his lips. /Anytime./

John shifted his right leg out and groped for Sherlock's prick, sluggishly surprised to find it limp between them, but felt up to the challenge. "Want me to give you a hand?" Sherlock immediately canted his hips and pulled himself away from John.

"No." He let Sherlock guide his hand back up to slide his fingers through his hair again, burying his mouth against John's to stem any possible follow up. When John's eyebrows didn't unknit, Sherlock broke off. "I'm fine. You know the rules."

"If you're sure..." John muttered finally, but drowsily went back to snogging.

With his muscles sufficiently loosed, his body purged, and the warm jaggedness of Sherlock lying across him, plundering his mouth with the acrid aftertaste of cum and arse, the threat of sleep overtook John quickly. His mouth grew slack and his hands leaden, slipping from Sherlock's head eventually. "I need to feed you up" he muttered against Sherlock's face, his tongue turning heavy, "you're all bones."

"Sleep John." He heard against his lips, before he was out.

//

He snapped awake. Disoriented. Wondering what had brought him here. "Was I just snoring?" There was a disheveled detective lying beside him, watching him very closely with pale, gravitational eyes. John felt incredibly tired and incredibly relaxed.

"You're face gets smoother when you're sleeping." Sherlock remarked as a form of answer. He pushed a soft kiss onto the cap of John's shoulder, and burrowed a sharp chin into his bicep.

"How long was I asleep for?" 

"Fourteen minutes."

It certainly didn't feel like that long. He felt like he had just blinked or maybe slept a whole night. "I don't know if I told you before, but that was bloody amazing."

"You did." Sherlock said, dismounting from the bed. 

John watched his narrow arse round the edge of the mattress, heading towards his bureau. When he tried to move himself, his skin felt shellacked and his limbs leaden. "Could you get me a towel? I can't get up." His legs still seemed to be trembling.

"Then just stay like that." Sherlock said, glancing over at him with a crinkled smile. He opened John's top drawer filled with socks and underwear.

"You sure you don't need anything?" John eyed Sherlock's placid cock tucked back into the foreskin. A secretive knob of flesh that John wanted very much to see fully erect, but felt now he was pressing his luck.

"I'm fine." Sherlock assured him as he absentmindedly started organizing John's socks by color and stopped himself.

John spread his arms wide, snow angeling himself on the covers. Blissed out. "What are you doing?"

"Snooping." Sherlock admitted kindly, purposely mixing balled up socks across the invisible divide into the underwear side for the hell of it. "I've just made you ejaculate without even touching your penis and subsequently go unconscious; correctly predicting the outcome of my experiment. So I believe I've earned the right."

"You think that because I let you stick your tongue into my arse you can just ransack my pants drawer?" John posited in a half-hearted tone. All his energy stolen. "And they say romance is dead."

Sherlock pulled a pair of briefs from the rummage and held them up on his finger. "Red, John? Really?"

"I look pretty damn good in them." Came the unabashed reply.

Then he saw something that wasn't underclothes tucked away, ripe for plucking. "Oh. Hello. What's this?" He pulled a small brown moleskin book from its secreted place in the far back corner of the drawer. Unsnapping the elastic band and thumbing through the pages.

"Hey!" John sprang up from the bed when he finally did notice with a surprising bout of energy, descending upon Sherlock in two steps. But Sherlock was quicker and held the book up at full arm's reach, well out of John's grasp. Safe again, he continued to flip through blank pages until he found a column of careful writing towards the back. 

It was a list of names and beside each one was a date. There were fourteen in all. 

The last one snagged on something in his memory. "Soo Lin Yao...who she?" The date beside her was written '(August 7th, 2010)'. That was incredibly recent.

"Of course you'd forget." John, too proud to jump, had his arms folded across his sticky chest, looking angry. "She's /that/ girl. The one from the museum..." his voice became more heated at Sherlock's empty expression, his palm out expectantly. "The one who was killed by her brother from the Black Lotus Gang." Hge made a swipe at the book but missed and it only proved to anger him further. "Give it back."

"Yes. But why is she in a list with thirteen other people? They're the only thing written in the book."

"Sherlock. Give it back. Right. Now." He emphasized his upturned hand with fire in his dark eyes. Smears of dried semen and saliva were streaked across his belly and glowed in the light, lacquering his pubic hair into a fern pattern. Sherlock found this oddly beautiful. "It doesn't concern you."

"Of course it concerns me. Everything about you concerns me--oh!" A thought occurred suddenly to Sherlock as he added up the facts. Jumped three steps ahead of the information on hand and came to the correct conclusion. "She's dead. That's why she's in this book. Isn't she?"

"Sherlock..." John warned.

"This is your record book, isn't it?" Sherlock was caught on the idea, unable to stop. "You feel responsible for her death. For all these deaths. That's why you wrote her name down. You ...think you killed her? Why? Her brother killed her for defecting. You had nothing to do with that."

John relented because he didn't have the energy to fight it. SupThe icon on the man's back was recognizable by its mismatched fangs and flaming sword. pressed regrets bidden forth by the sudden ebb in emotion. "I left her, Sherlock. I left her alone at the museum and she was murdered." He stabbed his finger in emphasis at the floor. "I was suppose to protect her and I didn't. I wasn't there when she needed me. Because I went after you."

"I never asked you to."

"You never need to ask me to." John said in a breath, his hands sliding down his arms and settling around his elbows. He looked vulnerable standing stark naked with his head down.

Sherlock threw out the name above that. "Jefferson Hope?"

John met his eyes again, not at all surprised by his obstinancy. "That shite cabbie with the pills."

Sherlock looked confused. "But you shot him /because/ of me."

"He's still dead by my hand."

"That night you didn't seem to mind. You even joked about it."

John squared himself. "I didn't say I had to regret it. I'm just responsible."

Sherlock shrugged it away, flashing through the names again. Most of them were soldiers, written with their ranks next to them. Some were named 'unknown' and a couple simply left as blank spaces but for the dates of their deaths. 

One caught his eye immediately. Strange compared to the rest. The name barely legible, as if John had only just been able to put pen to paper to write it. By all accounts, it didn't even look like a real name. It was the only one with no date beside it, but from where it was positioned in the bottom third of the list, Sherlock already had a good understanding of when it had occurred.

"Who is Caddyshack?"

When he looked up to engage the following silence, he found that John had visibly wilted. He'd taken himself back to the bed, unable to stand. His strong shoulders sagging as if under a yolk, with his palms turned up against his thighs. He looked so small and fragile sitting there, completely belying the ferocity of character. His head was turned fixedly to the ground between his feet, though his eyes were closed. He inhaled and exhaled in light, seeping breaths through his nose. The pterygoid muscles of his jaw flexing rhythmically. 

It was the one name he'd been hoping for Sherlock to gloss over and therefore the one name he would notice.

"John?" Sherlock tried softly.

John's movements were quick, his eyes kept closed as he pulled open his bedside stand, groped, and produced a down-turned photo from beneath his Browning. He held it towards Sherlock with his head tilted away, as if he were afraid to see it. His face already devastated.

Sherlock immediately noticed that the photo was worn at the edges as he took it. It was softly tattered from being held for long whiles in oily fingers. Taken in a portrait format were two young men standing center in the front of a baked mud wall. 

The shorter man was obviously John with golden stubbling prickling his chin. Despite his hair being lighter than it was now, noticeably less gray, and cropped incredibly short. It was wrecked into spikes, having apparently just received a manhandling of some sort.

He was incredibly lean, wearing only camouflage pants tucked into khaki boots. His stomach was tightly clenched, having been captured in mid-laugh. The rich mocha tan of his arms and neck was exaggerated by the differentially light tan of his bare chest, a testament to the months of spotty tee shirt wearing in the blaring Afghanistan sun Sherlock had already attested to. His dog tags gleamed like stars.

The man presumably called Caddyshack was bear hugging John's side, practically climbing on top of him. He was wearing only a pair of very short blue shorts and aviator sunglasses. Caddyshack was taller and skinnier than John, handsome with a prominent mustache.

His back was tilted partially towards the camera with his arm wrapped around John's neck, revealing the dark, striated half of an irezumi body suit tattooed from his neck clear down to his ankle. The menacing icon of a Bhuddist guardian deity was quick to spark Sherlock's esoteric recognition. The icon on the man's back was recognizable by its mismatched fangs and flaming sword. 

"Fudo Myo-o." He muttered. And John blinked up at him, shocked out of his deliberate breathing patterns.

"How did you--uh, yes. Right. B--*ahem* he was mad about lore and mythology. Different cultures." John managed a small, wet smile as he stared hard at the back of the photo, as if it were the only way to see it. "Didn't matter what one specifically, just as long as it was ancient. He loved that stuff so much he started learning their languages in his spare time. He spoke five fluently, when I met him. Two dead languages as well. He could read Sanskrit." 

Sherlock dredged his Mind Palace for more information, wanting to keep John talking. Wanting to learn about the John he'd been before. A reference to Myo-o flickered before him. "The 'immovable wisdom king', wasn't that Fudo?"

John's stab of laughter was congested, thinking on a past long gone. "Uh yeah, though HE certainly thought he was as well."

Sherlock squinted harder at the photo dwarfed in his hands. All areas surrounding it were swathed in great sweeps of wind bars and bright, spidery chrysanthemums. It took up three quarters of Caddyshack's side and his stance just barely showed that the other side of his body was tattooed the same. It had been so freshly rendered that the ink was still dark in his skin, unmuted by his tan.

Caddyshack's right leg was hitched up with John's help and held tight across John's hips. His face smashed against John's cheek hard enough to bend his glasses askew as his lips were puckered enthusiastically to plant a crushing kiss onto the doctor's temple. An act that had produced a fool hearty smile on the young Captain Watson.

If someone else were to look at this photo, they would see two men horsing around, playing it up for the camera. But with Sherlock's meticulous eye, he read their body language as easily as if John had said it aloud:

These two men had been in love.

"His real name was Bill..." John whispered in the tiniest voice, which broke in his throat like a compound fracture. "Bill Murray. He's dead."

Sherlock didn't dare move.

John made a pitiful sound, forcing himself to continue. "He's the one who saved me. When I was shot." John bit at his lower lip before it could tremble and pulled stiffly at the hot, sucking sensation of tears in his eyes. 

Sherlock remained blessedly silent and it was a while before John's voice allowed itself to be found again. "We were assigned to clear out a compound in Nahr-e Saraj that was suspected of housing Taliban. It was a green level village, which meant it was considered friendly, nothing special should have come of it. Easy in and out. A five man patrol was to probe one kilometer North, sweeping for IEDs as we went. Standard procedure. " He took a long breath, almost laughing in disbelief. "Those bloody things. When they'd go off, they'd pick up whatever was around them and scatter it into the blast. There was...I once saw a twelve inch piece of grass puncture through a bloke's thigh, still green. I mean...shit. Those were worse than gunfire in a way. I'd have taken live fire any day over...over...

"There were two men inside the compound, an older man and a younger one. Lieutenant Murray was our translator, big fucking surprise. When we interrogated the men, they told us they were farmers, but their hands were too soft to have done any farming. And the younger man had just shaved his head; the suicide bombers do that, to cleanse themselves before Jihad. We arrested the younger man as a HVI under suspicion and called in the ANP for pickup. We were headed out to the road to meet them when it happened.

"We were in formation; Murray and I had the prisoner between us, this kid, a nineteen-year-old Lance Corporal flanked us. And the two others were ahead, scouting for IEDs. Just...normal stuff."

John cleared the thickness from his throat. "Murray was still questioning the prisoner while we walked, trying to get the name of the village he'd come from when the blokes up ahead located an IED half buried in the dirt and we decide to detonate it on spot. There was enough time and it was the safest thing to do.

"So we blow it up, no big deal...and we didn't know that anything had actually happened until I looked over at Murray and there was blood running down his nose." John swallowed audibly, as if the words were stuck. "Apparently the first shot the sniper took had coincided with the IED perfectly; nobody'd heard it. We all thought it was a piece of shrapnel at first, some rock that got kicked up maybe. But it had been a bullet. A goddamn /bullet/ got lodged in Murray's helmet! Right in the center. I mean Jesus Christ, how lucky was he that it didn't pierce his goddamn skull?! The fucking bastard..." 

He shook his head in disbelief, turning to Sherlock and finally opening thundercloud eyes that were glittering with unshed tears. "You were right, the other day, when you guessed about the trajectory...it was too much for the rifle they were shooting us with."

"It wasn't a guess." Sherlock replied quietly, unable to help himself.

John's eye crinkled in an attempt to smile, an errant tear cutting loose down his cheek when he blinked. He had to inhale and exhale a steeling breath to tell this part of the story, looking as though it was physically agonizing. "I remember Murray looking back at me and the cock was smiling. The blood had gone into his mouth so his teeth were all red." 

A singular laugh betrayed him at the memory. A look of fondness softening his face as he wiped the wetness with his palm. "And it was this ridiculous shit-eating grin that he use to have sometimes and I just remember that I paused when I took off my kit. To laugh at the git. I stopped to fucking /laugh/, and th...that's all it took. The sniper must've crawled closer on his second shot. 'Cause...well...

"When someone gets hit, it's always the same sound. You never forget it. Bullet hitting meat." John's face twisted as he re-heard it within his head, reliving countless memories of that very particular sound. "At the time, it was weird; because I knew it, but I didn't believe it.

"I don't remember the actual impact; just...one minute I was up and the next I wasn't and Murray was there with his red teeth and behind him the sky was purple and I honest to Christ thought I was hallucinating. My body felt so heavy and I kept trying to get up, but Murray was laying on top of me asking me what to do. 'What do I do? Tell me what to do John.' I knew it was bad if he was using my first name like that. You don't-- I fought, I remember, trying to get him to let me up, but he wouldn't let me see. He was ripping through my kit and started packing gauze into my shoulder and I was just trying not to black out. I think he stuffed in a whole roll.

"The entire time he was perfect, totally calm when I couldn't be. Me, the bloody doctor. He um...he kept whispering to me before I passed out. Over and over. Za ta sara meena kawom. Za ta sara meena kawom. Za ta sara me--" his voice cracked in his throat, having to swallow around the jagged words. "We use to say it to each other when we knew we wouldn't be overheard...back when--"

Sherlock dared not breathe as John's voice tried its best to die into a sob. 'I love you', Sherlock's mind translated. Murray had whispered 'I love you' to John in Pashto repeatedly and again during his life's most tenuous hour.

John continued when he could, but only just. "We were going to move in together when we came back. Find each other after our tours ended. It's stupid, isn't it? To plan. That's when it all gets cocked up. That was the last time I saw Bill. He was killed a week later." He sniffed harshly and crushed his eyes with the heels of his hands. If he couldn't stop himself from crying now, he was determined not to make it a spectacle. 

Eventually, he took his hands away and looked down into his wet palms, flexing his fingers before clenching them tightly, as if he could grasp his emotional turmoil and solve it with his fists. It was with his sadness held so tightly that John Watson revealed that which he had not ever revealed to ANYONE. The source of a guilt so deep, it had given him a psychosomatic limp to the bewilderment of every doctor he'd worked with post Afghanistan. "I wasn't there when he died. He took a bullet right through the femoral artery. Bled out. I didn't get to...I should have...If I'd just /been/ there, y'know?...I could have--I don't..."

He growled at the injustice of it all, angry at his floundering. Then subsided into sad complacency. "I suppose I should feel lucky. We...I got to hear what I imagine everyone wants to hear before they die. But /I/ didn't get to say it back, Sherlock. I couldn't. I just was trying not to die. Pleading to stay alive so I could see him again. I didn--" John was curling in on himself, as if the expenditure of words were literally dessicating him of his very life. 

When his body stopped curling, he was as small as he could get with his head buried between his knees and his face smashed into his hands, the muscles of his shoulders and arms rippled beneath his skin. On the verge of imploding. "I didn't get to say...anything. Not a fucking /thing/! I mean...Jesus!...I should have fucking been there /at least/ to save him. To say what I needed to before he went...he wasn't--I couldn't save...aw fuck! Sherlock." His name as John said it was barely more than a devastating cry, his hands reaching up to fist his own hair in desperation.

The rolling waves of guilt coming off the doctor were nearly noxious, bombarding Sherlock in his proximity and causing something desperate like sympathy to awaken inside him. 

"John." Sherlock's deep voice cracked as loud as a peal of thunder through the room, though he'd only had it raised above a whisper. Sherlock tossed the book back into the drawer and shut it with a slam, as if he could reverse this opening of this Pandora's box. "Look at me John."

His repeat statement brooked no argument. "Look at me." 

John reluctantly met his eyes, dropping his hands, with his jaw loose. Absolutely wrecked.

In an instant, Sherlock swept towards him, completely overwhelming him. He bullied John back by climbing on top of him, lying flush against him, staring into those thundercloud eyes and drinking in the deep well of emotion until he thought he could absorb it all. Leech it from John's soul and let him be at peace.

He ground the bony brackets of their hips together, chafing penis against penis and scratching the soft skin of their bellies against coarse, mismatched hair. He took John's hands and threaded their fingers, guiding them up above his head. John was panting already, his eyes wet, his mouth an open vent of hot breath against his face.

"It is not your fault John Watson." He whispered, with a voice pitched as deep as bubbling oil. He led John's hands together and transferred them both to one of his, wrapping five long fingers around John's small fists as he brought his freed hand up to his mouth and sucked liberally on his first two fingers. Shoving them nearly to the back of his throat.

John's legs ratcheted up from beneath them automatically, knowing without asking. Strong thighs skittering up lean flanks. Black pupils blooming across blue until they were the only color to be seen under half sunk eyelids. Desperately needy for absolution. "It's not your fault." 

Sherlock drug his hand down through the lacquered cum on John's peach fuzz belly, through the thick hair of his pelvis, around the side of his imminent erection, and down against the spread cleft of his arse. Reveling in the familiar topographical difference between smooth perineum and the sudden scrub of wheat-colored curls that grew around the winking clutch of his anus. Still murky with Sherlock's saliva from the time before.

Sherlock pressed the full, wet length of his fingers across it, asking permission, watching John nod and spread himself wider in invitation. No hesitation. His knee appearing in Sherlock's periphery. John's hands stayed immobile above his head, allowed to be held loosely, groundingly, while he granted Sherlock first-time intrusion into his body. Gasping and cursing as Sherlock sunk one finger in up to only the first knuckle.

"Sher..." John tried, holding Sherlock's gaze for as long as he could. 

"It's not your fault." 

John squeezed his eyes shut as Sherlock sank deeper. Residual tears pinching loose to trickle down his temples, getting lost in John's hair. "Say it John." Sherlock pushed in up to the second knuckle, hooking his finger ever so slightly to press into the soft walls of his bowel, brushing against every nerve he could find, wanting to drive him to abstraction. 

"Hmmnn...Sh'lck...please." John whined.

"Say it John." Sherlock insisted again. He felt silken gut catch ever so slightly at a dry spot and immediately withdrew, shoving his fingers back into his mouth and re-lubricating them with an overabundance of saliva before they pierced John again. "Say it!"

"Aah!" John bared his throat at the sudden, wet intrusion and Sherlock shifted up to put his whole mouth over the lump of his larynx, lapping at it with the flat of his tongue. John's legs were trapped between both of them, his body writhing. "It's...not...Sherlo--!" He was simultaneously attacking two erogenous zones at once, wanting John to unravel completely in his hands. His soldier. His doctor. His friend, partner, and lover. 

Another retraction, lubrication, and reinsertion, this time with both fingers, and John was quivering beneath him, around him. Sweat pearling up on his crinkled forehead. His darkened cock at full extension, jutting up into the air, weeping at every errant brush of Sherlock's shoulder as he worked his hand clear down to his true knuckles. Lost in the sounds John was making. The sheer abandonment of decorum. Pared down to nothing more than the base need of /want/. 

"Mmmm ready...please....I'm ready." It was a struggle to be coherent, to be heard above the lust. "Fuck me." He gasped.  
"No. I can feel you, John. Not yet." He rumbled against the soft flesh beneath John's jaw, then resumed his mouthing. The strong muscles of John's pectinate line dilating around the base of Sherlock's fingers, fighting the buck in his hips. John was too wildly lost to last long enough for that.

He felt every moan that pitched its way through John's trachea between his teeth. Biting at the vibrations when they happened. Counter swiping his tongue against the prickling stubble that was just starting to grow out of the flesh across his throat. Sherlock left large evaporating stripes of wetness and reveled in the taste of John's salted skin.

One more application of threading, slick saliva to his hand and Sherlock pressed inside and curled his fingertips down against the swollen, richly sore gland of John's prostate, primed to explode. Holding nothing back. He stroked it three times clockwise and watched John's body climb to the precipice.

Sherlock took a hard knee to the chest as John's feet slammed down and made his arse arch clear off the bed. Head thrown back with his mouth hanging wide. For a moment he held there as if caught, straining, groaning, quivering as two more lighter strokes in the counter direction sent him over the edge into a roaring silence. 

Hot, spurting bullets of cum struck Sherlock's ribs as Sherlock's teeth bit down around the soft give of John's throat. Tasting John's roar. Sherlock rode out the wave of John's euphoric contractions until they ebbed into a full-body shaking. 

Carefully, carefully, Sherlock's mouth came unstuck with a soft pop and his fingers slid out as John's sphincter expelled him. He repositioned himself over the top of the loose mass that used to be a man, wrapped it up into his arms and nuzzled his nose hard against it's cheekbone, whispering words that he knew John would listen to, "ssshhh, John. I have you. It's alright. It's going to be fine."

Through the miasma of climax, John heard Sherlock's affirmations. Heard the words that he himself had whispered into the ears of dying men, as they took their last breaths on this earth in his arms. Beneath his hands. While they cried and pleaded and begged for their mothers. What he'd wished he could have said back to that man he still loved. Would always love. Bill Murray.

And was humbled. 

He felt safe, for the first time in a long time. With large tight arms and long, wrapping legs and soft pliant lips that lay kisses upon kisses upon kisses on his cheek. He felt love again for new man. A great man. The best.

He felt loved and alive when he'd forever thought that he never would be again. And it was truly terrifying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's experience in Afghanistan is based on a combination of a documentary I saw and real-life stories from an Afghan-war veteran that works at my work. 
> 
> Bill Murray is the character is credited with saving John Watson's life in Sir ACD's orginal canon.
> 
> Caddyshack is a nickname idea I made up from the movie involving Bill Murray the actor about golf and gophers.
> 
> first Morse : Sherlock Holmes gives amazing head.  
> second Morse : Sherlock Holmes has an amazing head.
> 
> the reference to a purple sky is the color of smoke they use to signal to the helicopters for pickup in real life. 
> 
> ANP = Afghanistan National Police. 
> 
> I imagine Caddyshack's love for history allowed John to answer the random question in 'The Great Game' where Janus is revealed to mean "the god with two faces."
> 
> Sherlock's impotence will be explained in a later chapter.


	9. The Adventures or the Demonstrative Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock explains his troubles. John tells Sherlock his own secret. They find a nice equilibrium.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so one more chapter of smut before I lower the boom on these lovesick fools. and if you'll notice, there' a definitive chapter count now so we're finally getting closer to the end. yay!
> 
> i'm hoping to have it finished by the Christmas special...so keep fingers crossed for that. next chapter's got A LOT going on it.
> 
> but a special thank you to everyone still sticking around to read. :} you guys are making me plough on and I appreciate it.
> 
> p.s. trigger warnings for gardners in this chapter...I apologize profusely to all you green thumbs for this. I REALLY TRULY do. but I wanted to keep this shit weird...

//  
CHAPTER NINE - The Adventures of the Demonstrative Man

John lifted into consciousness like a corpse rising in water. Immediately processing the heaviness of his limbs, the pinpoints of soreness that sang out louder as he awakened, his abdomen, his buttocks, his thighs and arms and, most surprisingly, /not/ his shoulder. But it was the furnace-like warmth buttered along his back that was the true cause for his waking, everything else was simply afterburn.

Sherlock was curled around him like a cephalopod. Long arms twined tight around the bulk of John's chest, his hands willfully captured in John's fists as he'd slept or in the time that he'd assumed he'd been asleep. John knew by the interrupted breathing on the back of his neck that Sherlock was awake. "Sherlock?"

"Hm?" Sherlock touched his nose to John's atlas. Pressing his frontal plate against John's occipital bone, which in turn pushed John's head down to examine their entwined fingers. 

"Alright?"

"Shouldn't I be the one to ask you that?" Came the rumbling baritone right against his spine. Sherlock touched his lips to his nape and rubbed them back and forth. Not quite in a kiss, but more as if in sensation. To feel. It made goosebumps raise across John's forearms.

"M'fine." Like being overcome by the ocean, John suddenly remembered all that had transpired last night. Able to map the lingering soreness in each of his muscles to what had occurred; the shoulder molestation, the rimming, Bill and the heartache and the promises he was instructed to make but could never quite say. He smiled wistfully. "You do know you can't exactly fuck the guilt out of someone yeah?" He felt the octopus crush of Sherlock's limbs squeeze tighter around him in response. A long thigh throw itself up across his hip. A huff of laughter against his hairline.

"Can't you?"

"No." John admonished. "But it was a brilliant effort." He brought their knotted fists up to kiss the long fingers slotted between his own, pressing sharp knuckles into his lips and holding them there.

Sherlock hummed satisfactorily, shifting closer and unintentionally revealing the hard column of his secret erection to press against the top of John's bum. "Oh. Hallo." John pushed back before he could move away, trapping it between them and Sherlock gave a sharp inhale before going completely still. 

Excitement flickered suddenly through John.

Moving quickly, he turned in the halo of Sherlock's stiff arms, coming nose-to-nose with Sherlock's face and a look John couldn't quite decipher. There was a cool, blank expression schooling his long features and not a bit of the sedated pride he'd heard in him from a moment before.

Testing, John kissed him, pleased to feel Sherlock not hesitate to reciprocate and with the encouragement, John's loose arm began to rake trails down the side of Sherlock's torso. Combing his fingers over the ripple of Sherlock's ribcage, into the valley of his waist, and up onto the hillock of his pelvis, stroking it with his thumb. He pressed his body in closer, his own penis warming between them with the prospect of another go.

Sherlock ate at his mouth, allowing the closeness to proceed as John saw fit, only freezing again when John's fingertips swirled incredibly close to his prick and paused there in the dark curling hair. He pulled in a breath and tipped his chin away with a wet smack, blinking quickly.

"D'you want me to take care of this for you?" John asked seductively, keeping his hand poised where it was as he asked, not wanting to assume, but still pulling at Sherlock's bottom lip with gentle suckling kisses. He wanted very much to make Sherlock feel as good and sated as he felt right now. Lying here warm and content, snogging his new found love. He wanted Sherlock to completely understand his willingness to reciprocate. 

"Uh, if you wish." Sherlock replied after a moment. John took a heartbeat to watch for something contrary to pass in Sherlock's technicolor eyes, to match his tone, but when nothing came he couldn't stop the electric thrill of finally getting the chance to do this from subsuming any lingering hesitation. "How would you like me?"

"Like this is fine." John said as he brought his fingers around to gently take the full tumescence into his grasp. The head mushroomed out above the ring of his small fist. Sherlock swallowed.

"Alright?" John asked. Still taking soft bites at his mouth.

"Yes. Of course." Sherlock's voice went raspy, deep. His eyes swirling with colour.

John began to move his fist, pacing himself until he regained the confidence of pleasing the backwards feel of another man's flesh in his hand. He went slowly. Gently. All the while watching for any reaction at all. 

In time, Sherlock began to rock with his movements. His hips making little scooping motions, leaning back in and closing his eyes when he met John's mouth. He reached up with his free hand to place his palm over the side of John's neck, holding his head in place against the pillow, like he didn't want him to move. 

He kissed into him harder as John stroked him more fervently. Neither of them making any noise except for the overlapped staccato hisses of their breathing and the soft saliva pop of sticky lips.

Noticeably, the delicate flesh of Sherlock's cock had begun to lose its hardness, but John refused to worry, chalking it up to nerves.

Momentarily separating them, remembering how generous Sherlock had been last night with lubrication and considering a dry rub might be a little too much, John brought his hand up and pressed his fingertips to Sherlock's kiss-stung lips, not able to hold back a dirty groan and physically forcing his eyelids to stop their descent to half mast just so he could /watch/ his digits slip inside that impossible mouth and get sucked. When he pulled them back, that wicked tongue followed and more saliva was spread liberally across his callused palm. The touch simultaneously itched and tickled, arrowing straight to John's groin.

When his slick fist retook Sherlock's cock, both Sherlock and John gasped in unison.

Soon the burn of the repetitive motion began to make John's shoulder burn, which only strengthened John's resolve to make this as good for Sherlock as humanly possible. He wanted to take him apart, as he had had done to him last night, to open him up and spread him out and see all the beauty that was trapped inside. Sherlock had done SO MUCH for him in these past few days. Hell, since he'd met him, and John wanted him to feel and to know how much he appreciated it. Him. How much he /loved him/. Without overstepping the bounds of speaking the actual words.

In a emboldened spate, John decided that his hand would simply not be enough.

He began to move down, extracting himself from Sherlock's hand and encouraging Sherlock to turn onto his back, kissing down the lean, warm spread of his body as he went. He slathered his lips and tongue and teeth all across the breadth of Sherlock's torso. Considering each expanse of skin bared to him to be a sacred thing. A gift to be enjoyed.

He halted to pay tribute to both rosy nipples in turn, thrilled to feel them rise up as tiny beads beneath his mouth and pull surprised gasps from Sherlock, even going so far as to illicit a bow-like arch to his spine when he gave it a sensory bite. He felt the ghost of a hand hovering over the back of his head when he did, skittish as a humming bird, but never quite touching down. He took note of how ridiculously sensitive Sherlock seemed to be there, shelving the knowledge to utilize more in the future. 

Sherlock was breathing loudly through his mouth now, temples crinkled beneath the forearm thrown over his eyes, only occasionally tipping up his neck to mark John's progress and he moved down, down, down. 

Sherlock's knees came up and moved out to accommodate John as he rested his body between his legs. John letting out an involuntary moan as his own aching cock became pressed between him and the bed, applying just enough insufficient friction to cause him to start rutting against the covers in time with his mouth. Neither man commenting on the fact that Sherlock'd softened considerably more as John's mouth finally met his flesh.

He started with a delicate lapping to Sherlock's corona and a swirling press to his frenulum. Paying special attention to the silky face of Sherlock's glans. Tonguing the slit. Laving the shaft. Before taking it all into his mouth.

Sherlock's hand found the saddle of John's trapezius, long fingers spidering onto his neck, squeezing in encouragement. His hips jumping up in surprise before settling back down. A hiss through his teeth issuing forth.

He thought about what he personally liked during fellatio and tried to transcribe them as best they could the other way round. Giving it his best with his teeth covered and his tongue always moving. Working him judiciously. Wanting to know what he liked. What he responded to. 

He teased the silken head with the tip of his tongue, having to sacrifice a hand to prop the wilting prick up now and followed the natural groove of the glans up and down.

 

John would be the first to admit that he was no lethario when it came to giving head to men, but the couple of times he actually HAD sucked cock, Bill had undeniably gotten off, so he didn't fancy himself total shit at it.

"J-John?"

But it had also been far easier when the man he was sucking was as hard and throbbing as John had been. 

In a last-ditch effort, John twisted his mouth as he pulled Sherlock up shallow, dragging his lips across that fat round overhang while simultaneously having to pull back the foreskin that was bunching up around it with slippy fingers. He was drooling readily around the tip. The pursed pink slit winking at him coyly when he went to readjust his placement.

He tried again and again, but it all fell short of making the phallus stand anew.

"John."

No use. 

By now, Sherlock's quiet thing had drained completely, shrunken back into its wrinkled skin as if hiding in embarrassment. John was actually panting with effort as he finally let Sherlock fall free.

He looked up, following the pale white runway of Sherlock's torso straight up into a pair of sheltered eyes where he was sure he could see the tiniest wash of disappointment before they turned away. John moved his wet hand back up to Sherlock's hip, unwilling to let failure get the better of him, "any recommendations you wanna give me? Constructive criticism?" He tried to make it sound casual, but felt like he'd failed. "I'm all ears."

Sherlock turned his chin to look at the ceiling, his hand releasing John's shoulder as if it didn't deserve to be there. "It's not going to work."

"Oh?" A gathered rivulet of sweat took that moment to escape the sheen from across John's brow to track down his temple. "Not good?" 

"No, it's..." Sherlock pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. "It's just not going to."

"Oh." John let that sink in, unconsciously looking back down to the docile penis and pondering what that meant as if it might explain the issue itself. If there was an underlying medical condition going on, surely Sherlock would choose /now/ of all times to bring it up? But as he waited for it to come, nothing did. Maybe there was something psychologically wrong. Maybe something he didn't want to discuss...something he wasn't willing to initiate. He looked pretty damn tense.

An ugly thought suddenly flashed unbidden across his mind. Striking him cold. "Sherlock?" He made nervous circles on Sherlock's hip with his fingers, still using the faux casual tone that fooled nobody. "I meant what I said before about you not having to hide anything from me. If something..." he licked his lips, "if someone's done something to you...anything you didn't want. I--"

He was interrupted by Sherlock's quiet laughing and it only tapered out when he realized John was goggling at him in offense. "You're assuming my impotence stems from a previous traumatic sexual experience?" John frowned more deeply, not understanding. When Sherlock met his eyes again the smile had faded completely. "You're mistaken."

"Then what is it?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Sobriety." 

John's mind stuttered. "What? Seriously?"

"Yes. Seriously." 

A moment was spared to Sherlock's considering, which made that same look that had afflicted him last night in the cab come over him again, where Sherlock calculated all the ways that saying what he was about to say might go badly. These were things that were difficult to pull up from the archives of his own life. But they were important. /John/ would find them important and Sherlock by proxy felt them necessary enough to expose to the light.

"When I say that my body is merely transport, I mean that it is exactly that. It does not 'perform' in the usual way. I cannot-- sexual gratification is not something I can usually participate in and allow the process to overtake me with sensation.

"My mind requires constant stimulus John, so it rebels when left to seed, and it will rarely allow the needs of my flesh to supersede my thoughts, however much I may wish it to. Is that sufficient enough explanation?"

John thought about this, parsing it out in his own way. It took him a little bit. "So when you say it's not going to work, what you're really saying is...you can't focus on sex because your brain's on overdrive all the time?"

"In a manner of speaking. Yes."

Sherlock seemed to be satisfied with that, but John was too intrigued to let it go. 

"So are-- are you saying it doesn't feel good at all? Or--"

"It was not wholly objectionable." Sherlock admitted vaguely.

"But it didn't work."

"No."

"And it's not going to work? No matter what I do?"

"No."

"Not even the good bits?"

"/No/ John." Sherlock bit out, becoming irritated.

"Alright. Take it easy. I'm just trying to understand. But you said 'usually participate in', have you EVER enjoyed sex?"

He sighed and drew his hands to his belly, as if to protect himself from exposing too much. "There has been the rare occasion when I was inebriated, high, or emotionally compromised enough to circumvent my thoughts. The last occurring only once when I was desperate for Victor's affection at the end. But all other instances in between was myself being merely complicit.

"So please understand that all this," he tipped his head at his sleeping cock, "is not meant to be taken as a reflection of you or your efforts at arousing me. It's unwillingness to cooperate is merely a part of my general ...dysfunction. So please continue believing that your powers of seduction remain safely untarnished, 'Three Continents Watson'."

The tone was meant to bite, but John was still trying to understand and was staring into the middle distance, his brow held in a perpetual furrow. And that made Sherlock even more edgy. He didn't want John disseminating it. Trying to understand it. God forbid trying to /fix/ it. He just wanted John to accept it and move on. 

Rolling his eyes in exasperation, Sherlock came to a hasty decision.

Drawn back into his eyes at the movement, John saw Sherlock stretching for the lubricant he'd already had located sometime before, obviously avoiding any further questions. 

"And now that you've been informed John, I want you to ignore it. None of that matters right now. Right now I want you to continue what you were doing, but lower, avoiding my penis all together and paying the most attention to my perineum. And then when you're ready, I want you to manually penetrate me." He slapped the tube into John's limp hand and settled back into the pillows, spreading his knees and presenting himself sacrificially, as though what he'd just said didn't change the tilt of the world beneath their feet. As if he was /used/ to this sort of self-immolation. 

And John could only sit there frozen in place in a new way, blinking at him as Sherlock wrestled the pillows into place behind him, prattling on. "I should only require a modicum of preparation. Two to three fingers, I think, but if there's resistance or I look uncomfortable, ignore it or add more lube, I'll adjust accordingly. And don't be alarmed if I fail to ejaculate; it rarely happens in the presence of another person, let alone--"

It was John's turn to laugh inappropriately now. Entirely without humor. The noise that came out was loud and shocking, like a flock of birds suddenly bursting out into the sky. "Ehm, no. Nooo. We're stopping." He said, not even considering it with a shake of his head.

He moved to sit up, but when Sherlock's face began to twist into a horrified frown, John scrambled up and dropped himself straight onto the detective's chest so that he was face-to-face to explain himself. "Hey. No, listen Sherlock. It's not that I /don't/ want to. It's just that, right now, THIS is not going to work for me. Usually when I get off, I want the person I'm with to get off too."

"And as I've JUST told you, it doesn't work that way!" Sherlock growled. "Your 'getting off' is the main point of the whole affair! Not mine. In case you hadn't heard, you've been formally absolved of it. Don't think for one second that it had escaped my notice that your erection was just cutting holes in the eiderdown!" Something hellish broke over Sherlock's face as he spoke his next words. "But perhaps if you've lost all desire to to /fuck me/ given the circumstances then perhaps it would be better if I just left!"

Sherlock made to get up, but John stopped his effort by simply tensing all his muscles and trapping him in place. "Woah! Hang on a minute." Despite his small stature, John could be a heavy bastard when he put his mind to it.

Sherlock struggled beneath him once, then twice, before giving up and going stiff and still beneath him, shutting his eyes instead.

John would have found the whole situation amusing, if he'd not been so concerned about the twin flags of embarrassment painted high on Sherlock's cheekbones. That quiver in his throat. It didn't take a genius to see that Sherlock was trying their de facto way of avoiding difficult situations by fleeing, even if he couldn't do so physically. Had they been in Sherlock's room right this second, John had no doubt he'd be getting kicked out right about now.

But instead Sherlock was playing possum, simply waiting for John to make a decision since Sherlock's had been taken from him. And John was pretty sure Sherlock honestly didn't know how to respond to a possible dismissal when it came to things like this. So he'd made the first desperate move.

John also had the sneaking suspicion that Sherlock was considering himself untenable now that his body had revealed its apathy towards sex. As if it were some broken thing that he merely got on with. And with a sinking feeling, John guessed that this was the first time he'd ever let someone willingly see it. That he'd /allowed/ someone to see it.

If so, Sherlock was wrong in thinking that somehow his flaccidity equalled undesirability. That they needed to call this whole thing off simply because some new information had come to light. Because it could never change how beautiful Sherlock was. Not to John. They just needed to talk about it.

"Sherlock?"

"What?" The reply was sharp, his eyes flashing in challenge as they pinned John in place.

"Look here. S'alright." John hooked his finger and rubbed his knuckle gently across a rosy, mountainous cheekbone, striving to keep his hardened gaze. "It's alright to not want it. If you never want to have sex, we don't have to."

This, he learned quickly, had been the wrong thing to say.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed into slits, their sharpness tempered down into a mutinous shine. "That's NOT what I said, if you had even BOTHERED to listen to me John and hardly practical in a romantic relationship! But most of all it's certainly NOT what I require. Don't try to coddle me with your misplaced sense of munificence!" He bared his teeth as he hissed.

And all John did was solidly hold in a sigh.

Now Sherlock was lashing out because he felt he was being patronized. But John wasn't placating him. 

However Sherlock functioned was simply how it was and he would take Sherlock in ANY way he came. Sexually or not. He was still his. He HAD to make him know this.

"Sherlock." John said softly, soothingly, kissing lightly at the corners of his sneering mouth. "Sherlock. C'mon." He used variations on his name to punctuate each touch of lips. Kissing and prompting and kissing and prompting until that impossible mouth became lax again under his patient touches and finally Sherlock could not help but give the tiniest kiss back. 

Smiling encouragingly, certain now that he wouldn't bolt, John shifted his weight more onto his knees and elbow and separated their torsos, smoothing a palm across Sherlock's hispid chest to keep them tethered, while allowing more space between them so that Sherlock could watch his whole face as he spoke. Knowing that that was how Sherlock would best interpret what he was about to say. 

He had always relied on John's facial expressions to help him navigate human emotion, and this was important.

John began to track the infinity symbol with his fingertip around the spread of Sherlock's pectoralis majors, lazy sideways figure eights that looped a wide berth around his nipples and overlapped at his sternum. Signaling that John wasn't on the retreat and that he was here in this moment with him.

"I meant what I said, Sherlock. It's ALL fine. If you ever want to have sex or not or just want to snog each other all day and not want it to go any further, that's fine too. I'll have you in whatever way you come, just like you can have me. Yeah? And whatever you want, whenever you want it, I'll be ready when you're ready and we'll figure it out together, okay? 

"I KNOW you don't really want to do anything right now and that's perfectly alright." He pressed his hand fixedly to Sherlock's bird-frantic heart for temperance, watching him swallow. His dark eyelashes flutter. "And I don't want you to ever feel like you /have/ to endure anything to keep me happy. Okay? I won't hold it against you if you don't feel like doing what I want to do. 

"I'll ALWAYS want you. And just because you don't want to, or because - like you said - you function differently, that does not make you dysfunctional. Yeah? You're brilliant and mad and yes, a colossal git most days, I'll give you that, but that doesn't make-- you have never been broken. Nothing about you is." He pressed a kiss to the crease between Sherlock's eyebrows and pulled back to retake his eyes. "There is NOTHING wrong with you. Do you understand?"

The detective only blinked in numb surprise.

Overall satisfied that his point had been as clear as he could make it, John gave Sherlock a moment of privacy by bending his head to press warm kisses against Sherlock's suprasternal notch. Knowing without having to see that those luminous eyes were now shuffling in their sockets, parsing through the information given and translating it into something Sherlock's brain could understand.

He could pinpoint the precise moment Sherlock realized the gravity of what John had told him; by the shocked inhalation and a moment after, by the string-taut muscles finally letting go beneath him. Sherlock's subsequent exhale so heavy that it ruffled John's hair. The breathy confession of "yes John" whispered within it.

"Good." A burst of satisfying warmth spread through John and he lowered himself back against that impossibly long body, affectionately mumbling, "now put your arms back 'round me, berk," and fumbling to assist until he was wrapped up again, wanting to regain that suffocating closeness he'd woken up to.

When Sherlock next spoke, it was a rumble beneath John's face. "All things considered. I enjoy facilitating your pleasure, John. Last night was...uniquely gratifying. I've never before been allowed to take control in that way." His long hands stroked down John's back, pausing possessively over his buttocks, and swept back up. A light kiss was pressed to the crown of his head. "And I do not want you to curtail your desires simply because I am not physically aroused. I will do...I /wish/ to do whatever it is you require of me. Anytime you'd prefer."

Considering this, John laid down on his ear, hearing the gorgeous da-thump da-thump that brought life to the magnificent transport beneath him. Sufficiently calmed. "Alright. I'll keep that in mind."

Sherlock's hands squeezed minutely. "But I do much prefer this." He whispered into the tumult of John's hair, so quiet that it almost remained a secret.

John smiled beautifully and agreed. It was nice to put to rest the worry that Sherlock's reciprocity had been misplaced. That all the one-sided erections had not been for a lack of interest, but simply a misunderstanding. Had Sherlock always been so misunderstood? Certainly John couldn't have been the first to assume.

"Did Eric or Victor ever know that you felt this way? About sex, I mean?" He kissed the clavicle beneath his face in supplication. It was probably bad etiquette to discuss your significant other's previous partners the morning after you'd been shagged rotten and fallen in love with him. But Sherlock Holmes was hardly one for decorum.

"No." Idly, Sherlock's fingertip drew a Golden spiral starting at the center of John's cervical spine and radiated it outward precisely. "But I was rarely myself in all the time I spent with them, so explanation never seemed necessary. And since I preferred penetration and intercourse was rarely pursued without the use of recreational drugs, my body would perform admirably. So it never really became an issue. But if they did notice when I didn't achieve orgasm, they never said." He could feel the tension coil minutely in John's body and instantly he cleared the air. "That is not to say I ever allowed myself to be coerced or abused because of it, if that's what you're worried about. I assure you that I was always a willing partner every time. I simply provided myself as the means to an end for something they felt they needed by necessity and I ...did not."

John couldn't help but feel slightly saddened by this, the way Sherlock merely accepted his role in something that John's conscience told him he should actively WANT to be a part of. But Sherlock's tone brooked no pity and it was a clear fact that he had simply come to terms with it long ago, made the best of it, and held no grudges against it.   
Or anyone. 

Silently to himself, though, John made a vow that he would not use Sherlock the way he had been used in the past, whether Eric and Victor had known of his asexuality or not. That every time they engaged in any type of intercourse from here on out, it would be by mutual decision between the two of them and he hoped that Sherlock would have enough respect for John to tell him the truth of how he felt when they did. 

Slowly, he noticed that Sherlock's finger had stopped plotting Fibonacci's ratio to precisely dip into the small sinkhole that made up the exit wound in the back of his shoulder, worrying it gently. Sherlock's heart thumped a hair faster as John realized that Sherlock had realized that he'd been caught out. John closed his eyes.

"Acinetobacter baumannii." John said decidedly. He felt it only fair to exchange a secret for a secret.

"Hmm?" Sherlock's finger stilled, his hand splaying flat and laying down a warm palm as if to protect the scar from its reality. He kept stock still to encourage John to continue.

"In that deduction you did when you brought up this whole brilliant idea of shagging each other? You didn't know what had kept me laid up for a while after Afghanistan. That's what it was called: Acinetobacter baumannii. It's some multi-drug resistant bacteria I picked up somewhere between Bastion and Burmingham.

"But when I was recovering in Birmingham, something else happened, something... strange.

"I had had it for about a week before they figured out what it was. Long enough for me to contract pneumonia on top of it and end up pyrexic. Which you can probably guess meant that I was pretty far removed from consciousness then. Between the recovery and the meds and my immune system failing, I was pretty much dead to the world. So it wasn't 'til later, /weeks/ later, that one of the nurses had to explain to me what had happened..."

John shut his eyes, trying to remember as best he could, having to swallow down the jagged feeling that kept trying to rise in his throat. Tasting awfully like bile. "The day after I went into septic shock and had to be put on a ventilator... 

"It didn't matter that I was heavily medicated or that my arm was immobilized... I must've hallucinated or something, maybe had a night terror, I dunno which, but I-- point is, I made it UP over the guard rail on my bed and ended up on the floor." 

Sherlock, feeling him fidget with discomfort, wrapped his arms more tightly around John's torso. Nearly impeding his breathing.

"The nurse, Janet, I think was her name, said that she'd found me there when the vent alarm'd gone off and that I'd pulled the ET halfway out of my throat which was...a bit not good. Basically, that meant she'd found me lying there trying to choke to death on my own secretions.

"After, when she got the cuff deflated and the rest of the tube out, she told me that all I did was sit there and scream at the top of my lungs for Bill. As much as I could given the state of me. Just repeating his name over and over and over again. Just ...yelling for him."

John's voice became heavy now, his eyes staring unblinkingly at the small pink disc of nipple that when he'd reopened his eyes had been the only thing keeping him grounded to this moment. Keeping him focussed on /something/ rather than the terror crawling up his spine. "And I want very much to say that I don't remember that part, that I should have been too out of it to even think right, but /I do/, Sherlock. I know I do. 

"I remember the goddamn tiles on the floor. I remember how cold they were on my arse. I remember choking and gagging and Janet's hands on me. All of it. And Jesus Sodding Chirst I REMEMBER yelling Bill's name. 

"I mean...fuck. And do you want to know the most twisted thing about it all? That day it happened, that was the /same/ day Bill was back in Afghanistan bleeding out from a bullet. The EXACT same day. It was almost like ...like we were connected or something and I could /feel/ him dying and it woke me up." His brain caught up to his mouth, his eyes realizing that he was still staring at that flat little bud of skin and suddenly his ears smouldered with embarrassment. Embarrassment at his fear. Embarrassment at his actions. Embarrassment at having spoken the words aloud now making them /real/. And Jesus if that idea didn't seem utterly RIDICULOUS in daylight. 

He burrowed his face sharply into Sherlock against the sting of rising tears, like he could hide in the depths of his thin ribcage, press painlessly through his sternum and take refuge next to his heart. Chastising himself. "Christ if that doesn't make me sound like a twat." 

But Sherlock's arms only squeezed more tightly across John's shoulders, pressing them together so firmly that it seemed he too was trying to give John the osmosis he wished for. "So your phobia of medical equipment covering your face stemmed from..." Sherlock began, not finishing as he felt John nod minutely against him. Feeling John's skin break out in a wash of goosebumps. Feeling the smear of wet eyes.

"Yeah." John huffed out a thick and ugly laugh and sniffed it back sharply. "I guess that's the PTSD they don't account for when a daft bugger like me takes it upon themselves to perform their own extubation." He reached for something to say for the sake of levity, but came up short. Having instead to take deep breaths and count to twenty before trusting himself to speak again. He steadied himself with a shaky exhale. "They had to put me in soft restraints after that, she said. I kept trying to get up, kept trying to get to him, I guess, a long time after he was already gone. And that's it really. 

"So there, that's the part you didn't know. The me right after Afghanistan. A wreck. It all goes a bit gray after that." 

John's silver hair rasped intimately loud when he brought his head up and looked at Sherlock once again, blinking through his well-packed emotions. "And then I met you."

/And you brought such utter clarity to my life again./ John said with his eyes, because it felt far too damning to let his mouth say it aloud, but he could tell that Sherlock heard him all the same.

Sherlock cupped his face with his large hands, examining him. Smearing his thumbs where John's wetted cheeks reached his wet chin, while light eyes sliced through his brain and saw particulate galaxies that John could never ever hope to see within himself. And as if no other choice would suffice, Sherlock pulled and stretched up and kissed John as soundly as he possibly could in answer.

It was as hungrily done as the kiss in the morgue had been, but with the endless quality of last night's. Just a simple statement of necessity and understanding that they had both found new levels to their relationship with one another and that neither of them could ever bear to shy away. 

They kissed until the kisses became lazy and quiet. Sipping delicately from each other's mouths until John was contented to rest his head back on Sherlock's chest and let the room's silence encapsulate them.

They had spoken to each other with their mouths and never said a single solitary word.

Three stories below, the late London morning trundled by in its necessity and the two men in love stayed pressed to one another, without any want to take part.

//

A long time later, John was dozing, only coming awake when Sherlock began to shift like a halfnumb thing beneath him. He pushed up and rolled off, watching that long white body jack knife to sit at the edge of the bed and scrub a hand through his hair to resettle it. "I can't lay here any longer, John. I've things to do. But you should continue to rest, you're still tired." He said and turned to blink at John like a sphinx with a riddle. It was obvious from the clarity in his eyes that he'd not slept at all.

John was about to protest his own merits of sleep when a large yawn caught him off guard and had him showing Sherlock his tonsils. He huffed out a laugh and dropped himself back down into his pillow, reclaiming the warm space where Sherlock had just vacated and couldn't help but let out little growly noises in his contentment.

Sherlock watched him nuzzle into the bedding, even obliging to bring up the covers so that John would not get chilled. Before he brought them up to John's neck, he stopped to splay two exploratory fingers into the two little dimples that were dotted above John's arse like a human protractor. For science, John assumed.

John said nothing, but smiled into his scent and listened as Sherlock's soft footsteps took a walk around his bed. He let his eyes shut to the new sounds of domesticity. But instead of the sound of the door, he heard the slide of a drawer and the shuffle of cloth, before he opened his eyes and realized what he was listening to. "What are you doing? Please don't touch that."

Sherlock had the small mole skin book from the back of the drawer clutched delicately in his hand again.

"I need a pen." Sherlock muttered and came back to stand in John's proximity. He bent double and rummaged through John's bedside table without asking, pushing around his Browning and an unused box of condoms until he finally produced a ballpoint with a chewed on cap and gave a calculated look to the small, worn notebook.

"Sherlock, please." John said more forcibly. "Put it back."

Sherlock still ignored him, instead he opened the little book to the front page and scrawled something quickly into it with pointed flicks of his wrist, ensuring that it would be the first thing John read whenever the little book was opened. "After much deliberation on the matter, you really should consider beginning a new list John." He said to him finally, turning the book towards John and showing him that he had written: 'Sherlock Holmes - January 29th 2010'.

A lump formed in John's throat at the utter audacity, caught between being cross and intrigued. "A new list for what?" 

He knew deep down that Sherlock wasn't physically ruining anything he deemed of value. The list at the back had long since been burned into his mind. And it wasn't as though he was adding himself to John's death list. But still, he found himself staunchly annoyed. John had pushed up onto his elbows, ready to leap to his feet should he need to. "Sherlock?"

Spying something, Sherlock bent down and plucked up the picture of John and Bill that had been lost to the floor sometime last night, laying both it and the book gently onto his bedside table with incredible reverence. 

"Sherlock. Stop ignoring me." John prompted, snagging his wrist to keep him from leaving, becoming even more confused as Sherlock simply leaned in and pressed a devout kiss to the top of John's head, holding his face there. "A new list for what?"

Sherlock spoke into his hair, breathing in deeply, as if he couldn't get enough. "If you're going to insist on keeping a list of the people you have killed John Watson, you can, if only for the sake of dichotomy, begin to keep a list for the people you have saved." 

And as his naked silhouette disappeared from the doorway, John still couldn't find any words with which to respond.

//

After slipping asleep for the umpteenth time and sleeping soundly, John roused himself enough to leave the bed. Throwing on his dressing gown and gathering up his blue striped shirt and black trousers to wear, making his way downstairs.

He found Sherlock seated at the dining room table, straight-backed and peering imperiously down into his microscope. Taking time to notice the tilting pile of petri dishes stacked near his elbow. If only because their gelatinous red agar appeared to be colonized by something particularly furry and the topmost dish looked rather nefarious with a scalpel balanced across its open face. As it had just received a thorough scraping for transfer to a slide.

Sherlock was fully dressed in all black, leaving only the pale root of the back of his neck and long, curled hands exposed to the caustic kitchen light. His ramrod posture and the stark beauty that was Sherlock Holmes in his element did nothing to dissuade John from dropping a kiss to the crown of his head as he passed, thrilled at the pleased hum he received in return.

Feeling the tight squeeze of hunger in his belly, John opened the fridge and found nothing immediately appealing. Or rather nothing he could convince himself looked tasty enough to want to make to eat after he was done with his toilette. "I'm starving. I don't suppose Mrs. Hudson was kind enough to make us up some breaky--"

"Four hours ago now." Sherlock said without looking up, twiddling his dial. 

John frowned and squinted at his watch, surprised at the time. "Cor, it's already past lunch."

"The toast is soggy and the coffee's gone cold." Sherlock was saying and as if hiding it simply for this pleasure, Sherlock produced his mug from somewhere and set it on the tabletop right next to John's RAMC mug that had somehow - even more miraculously - made it back downstairs. "I'll be needing you to make some more."

John frowned at the ashes still flecking the bottom of his, but figured that having it returned to its rightful place was enough in light of recent events. He put it in the sink to wash later. 

It was only then that he noticed that by Sherlock's other elbow sat a half-eaten hard boiled egg in its cup. The tooth-pitted top was liberally salted, as if Sherlock had prepared it sometime earlier only to promptly forget it. 

Snatching it up, John smirked and stuffed it into his mouth, immediately finding the crumbly thing a little less lovely at room temperature, but he swallowed it forcefully anyway. "After my shower, maybe I'll think about it." John teased, "can't spend ALL day painted in my own spunk."

Sherlock's eyes raised at that, took one look at John's cheeky grin and went back to his work with his lips fighting a smug smile.

John was already twisting the knob to the door when he remembered that their bathroom was currently playing greenhouse for an array of carnivorous plants. "Alright to move these if I promise to put them back?" He called out into the kitchen.

John heard Sherlock mutter a, "hm? oh yes," in distracted confirmation and closed the door behind him, which, after some consideration, wasn't nearly as infested as John had feared. Sure, the light switch had been wired onto a bypassable timer, a digital hygrometer had been brutally mounted to the wall beside it, the window had been sealed over with plastic, and the humidity in the air was thick enough that John had a hard time taking a full breath, but the plants themselves seemed to bring an almost alien, terrestrial beauty to a room that had otherwise been hermetically boring. 

It was a bit like stepping into a misty technicolour jungle, he mused.

The shower rod haloing the slipper bathtub at the back of the room held eight Nepenthes plants and from each one drooped at least half a dozen large, bulbous flowers in the shape of open mouths. Their throats were a sensation of color, the swooping fleshy cups varied from gold to green to red to purple. Some were long and thin while others were fat and squat. Given their waxy skin and general aesthetic, they looked to be some sort of strange empty variant of fruit.

In the tub itself, Sherlock had gathered seven large pots. Each one containing a variety of Sarracenia. Large clarinet-shaped blooms with lime green stalks and mottled red heads that gawped strangely and swayed stiffly as he relocated them into a better cluster around the vanity, out of the way. 

The sink itself held the last of the meat-eating menagerie, one that was currently positioned uncomfortably close to his toothbrush. It was a singular spray of large, red-mouthed Venus flytraps. Each spiked head yawning wide in hopes of catching a wayward meal. 

Unable to resist temptation, John pressed his pinkie finger delicately into one of the heads, triggering the hairs, and engaging its little jaws to shut. Afterward, he felt just the littlest bit cruel for leaving it go hungry.

All over satisfied that he'd done a thorough perusal of the strange new live-in garden of 221B however, John readied the shower (taking care to spray any stray soil down the drain) and stepped into the water that was just the right temperature of hot to beat his sore muscles into submission and turn his skin pink. 

He braced himself in a wide stance so as not to slip, groping for his almond soap on the trolley outside the curtain and began to lather himself efficiently beneath the sluice of liquid heaven from top to bottom. He shampooed his hair with a few firm scrubs, and after a quick wash of his shoulders and sides, chest and belly, he slowed down as he reached the glued mess of his pubic hair, having to work a little more methodically. 

When he reached back around to his buttocks, he was surprised to find a protest of discomfort and upon further contorted investigation, found eight long bruises striping his arse laterally. Four long lines were split evenly between both of his upper thighs.

His cock pulsed as fond memory broke over him, realizing where these had come from and who they belonged to.

He licked his lips and pushed his fingers into the broken capillaries once more, enjoying the sweet sting. 

His neck turned to water and his eyes slid closed as the pang conjured up images of Sherlock recklessly hoisting John's legs over his shoulders so that he could eat John's hole like soft fruit. Tousled black hair sweat-slicked against an aristocratic brow, jutting up between the firm muscles of John's thighs. Wild eyes closed with such utter sweetness as if no meal on earth could have been more worth eating.

John's aborted erection from this morning suddenly had no trouble finding its second wind.

His transition to full hardness was quick. His member standing proudly from his body, enjoying the tickle of water down his sac as he spread his legs just a little bit wider and reveled in the feeling of it hanging free from sticky, soapy legs. He replayed the memory once more, embellishing it with Sherlock's eyes open this time and his tongue probing impossibly deep as he felt his arsehole flutter in anticipation. And then an unfathomable emptiness open low in his guts in counterpoint.

He wondered with bated breath what it would be like to be breached. /Truly/ breached. With a stiff full cock thrust deep into his arse. Preferably Sherlock's. Definitely Sherlock's if he could ever coax his body into it. Teasing that soft solid bundle of nerves hidden deep up inside him with each delicate slide, rubbing it with just the right amount of friction and pulling him closer and closer to that gorgeous, terrifying edge. 

He imagined the motions, the piston-like movements that would bring about his ruin. The in and out and in and out and i n and o u t and iiiiiiiinnn and oooouuuuutttt...

The fantasy sent a frisson of excitement through him, one so potent he found one hand curling around his prick and a voice-tinged gasp escaping his throat before he knew it. The motion had been so automatic that for the briefest of moments it could have been a stranger's hand. Almost possible to imagine it as Sherlock's han...hhnnnfff. Almost.

He tightened his grip and stroked himself deftly, putting his teeth into his bottom lip to dam back any other sort of incriminating noises he might make as he imagined Sherlock penetrating him from the other side. His whipcord body pressed in close. His long thin cock sinking deep into John's body, probing farther than he'd ever been previously explored.

He imagined those butterfly-shaped hips sweeping back and forth with such measured precision, reading his want perfectly, and John taking him firmly by his buttocks from behind and pulling them closer still. Wanting more. /Needing/ more. 

Christ, he should call Sherlock in here to help him out. He'd said he would do. Anytime.

But instead, John found his unused hand starfished against his chest, sliding of its own volition over his pecs and stopping to pinch the hard flesh of his nipples into peaks. He envied Sherlock's sensitivity here. Remembering the way his whole torso had lifted from the bed when John had sucked them. The very thought made John shiver in the midst of pelting warmth.

His anus fluttered again, empty and beckoning and then his idle finger had moved to his entrance, prodding at the ring of flesh which tightened like a flirt before opening slightly and allowing him in as he exhaled. 

Exploring his edges gently, he rocked his body, trying to find a rhythm between the water, the fingertip, and the stripping of his flesh. He turned one nipple into the spray and shuddered as it created a trifecta of stimulation, riding that brighter burst of arousal like a shockwave. 

The minute breadth of a single finger did all it could to electrify the nerves around his hole. Lighting him up like a switchboard to transfer waves upon waves upon waves of sensation up his spine and out into his fingers. He had to come back to himself twice before he lost his balance, reminding himself that there was nothing solid to grab onto should he capsize and the thought of being sprawled out in exploit was sobering.

That, plus the fact that his arm was starting to complain with the strange contortions and that his fingers were too short to find that perfect place up inside him that Sherlock had been able to find it so easily last night. His long thin fingers able to reach deep, while that magic spot for John seemed to remain stubbornly just out of reach. 

But the worst thing of all and definitely the most unmerciful, was that the water was beginning to lose its lush temperature. 

The boiler'd probably been depleted long before now; what with Mrs. Hudson, Mrs. Turner, her married ones, and hell maybe even Sherlock having had a go at it before John could even arse himself to get out of bed in what was now early afternoon. There was hardly a doubt that the old pipes would give out soon. Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

The sudden deadline on his wanking effectively put the last crimp in his style.

He tried harder, to end it faster, but the pressure was mounting and his focus was flagging and that water had dropped another two nefarious degrees and that deus ex machina button inside him just WOULDN'T reveal itself to his short, fine fingers and get this all over with and oh! for fuck's sake! Come on!

In a fit of desperation, and definitely /not/ his brightest moment with his blood currently occupied elsewhere, John pierced himself deeply with one quick hard shove, hoping to simply chance upon his prostate by circumstance. But unfortunately, he had pressed in so deep and so quick that it lifted one of his feet clear off the tub floor and very nearly sent him toppling soapyclean out of the shower. Just as he had feared.

He only /just/ managed to catch himself by instinct with a loud fistful of curtain and an angry clatter of curtain rings. Which effectively broke the spell of hedonistic solitude irreparably. 

His eyes snapped open, his ears pricking immediately towards the door, before he brain caught up with his actions and his current predicament and uttery swamped him with shame.

There was no doubt Sherlock had just heard that. If he came in now, he'd be able to deduce that John had just been two knuckles deep in his own arse, tossing off desperately in the shower while imagining his flatmate like ...well, like he'd always done, sans finger, but things were /different/ now. Their dynamics had changed. 

He'd probably take offense. Seeing John in this way.

And what would Sherlock have to say about it? Something cutting? Something embarrassing? Something blaming?

He'd taken it so personally when John'd stopped them earlier, considering himself broken. How did this help? Would he consider this cowardice on John's part? Promising all this deep insistence of mutual decision while lying in bed with him, but certainly not proving it in practice? Hiding himself away like a lech because it was /easier/?

The look he imagined cresting Sherlock's face, the /hurt/ that would be there...it made his heart want to seep from his body and wash down the drain beneath his toes. Shit, what was he doing?

Instead of melting, though, John's heart crawled straight up and lodged firmly in his throat at the soft snick of the door opening and closing. At the strange swirl of outside air disturbing the fog above the curtain rod as two atmospheres collided. And at the waiting insult about to be liberally and judiciously sprinkled over his injury.

Looking down, he scowled at his cock, as if it had started all this, finding it not nearly so flushed and salient as it had been, but still refusing to lose the last of its full arousal. As if it wanted to punish him. Expose him. 

And without debating it, John came to the only decision he had still at hand.

With gritted teeth, he wrenched the taps over full right and as the water plunged into an icy coldness so he could rinse himself off, immediately ridding him of the last of his arousal, he held proudly to the fact that he had not yelped. But only just. 

Shutting off the taps and squaring his shoulders, John parted the curtains and stepped out with as much casualness as he could muster when he had finished. 

Sherlock was leaning back against the wall near the light switch, his arms crossed, his face completely passive. He watched John drip on the rug for a moment, giving him a slow, sweeping full-body perusal before merely cocking an eyebrow in... what? disapproval? interest? but his face had gone back to that same indescernable look.

Convincing himself that he'd learn his sentencing here in a moment anyway, John lifted his chin defiantly, outstretched his arm, and mentally pulled on his thick skin. "Sherlock. Could I have a towel please?" He was free to let fly whenever.

But Sherlock merely handed him the towel in total silence, his hooded eyes never leaving John's. 

Perplexedly, John found himself wanting to snap at him, to have him just say his peace and leave. John knew he did wrong and this incessant waiting for the row or the domestic or the whathaveyou to kick off would be much easier to take if he'd simply just /say it/. 

But there was nothing. No response. No comment. No derision. The only indication that he hadn't turned into a bloody statue at the touch of high humidity was that his palms had come up to press together in front of his chin.

John waited and waited in the heavy silence. Blotting himself dry as best he could and toweling his hair enough to keep it from dripping while he impossibly waited some more.

But still nothing.

With a shake of his head John tucked the towel around his waist and turned his back on him, turning towards the beflowered vanity to disguise his wariness. Perhaps it would be better if he spoke first, admit his mistake outright and leave no part of himself exposed. He just needed to come up with the right thing to say. Something clever that would lay waste to Sherlock's ridicule. But what?

John cleared a space through the condensation on the mirror with one swipe from his palm, creating a stripe by which he could glance surreptitiously back over his shoulder and see that Sherlock had remained stubbornly in place, staring straight ahead at the empty space John had moved from, lost in thought. No doubt reaching into that special alcove in his Mind Palace where he kept the most eviscerating words he could find.

Sighing, John clicked open the cabinet, fished out his toothpaste, and when he shut it again started sharply. Sherlock had silently moved to stand very close behind him, grim and pale as a spectre. "Jesus Sherlock!" John growled, having to twice now recalm his racing heart. 

He watched raptly as Sherlock's eyes tracked down to the Venus flytrap balanced on the sink's rim, specifically to the one John had tripped earlier, with its head still closed while all the others stared at them openly in their sightless red way.

To John's utter surprise, Sherlock drew in closer and delicately wrapped his arms around John's belly, hooking his chin over John's scarred shoulder and finally speaking softly right next to his ear. "You shouldn't trigger Dionaea muscipula without feeding it John, it puts severe strain on the plant." He felt a kiss on his trapezius.

"Oh." John whispered back, slightly confused. "Sorry."

He felt Sherlock's shoulders shrug, his hands falling to the tucked edge of John's precariously low towel, teasing his thumbnail along the muscled ridge that shadowed John's hip. "Immaterial. I really only required the viscoelastic polymers from the other plants to conduct my experiment with, this one merely filled out the order to get free shipping."

John stopped bracing himself. 

He wasn't mad then.

Huffing out a laugh he very much needed to release, John turned his head to nose into Sherlock's hair. His breath catching short as he felt Sherlock release his towel with a flick and leave him standing naked once again. 

"Sherlock." John found himself panting as his thrice-warmed arousal was exposed, almost wanting to make up an excuse for it. He felt slightly dizzy from the rush of zig-zagging blood through his body and wished for something to hold onto. But the only thing he had to ground him was Sherlock's palms laid flat across his belly, mere centimeters from his stiffening cock and the calm breath pulsing against his neck and the toothpaste in his hand.

Sherlock hummed in approval and dropped his voice as low as a lorry's rumble, sliding his teeth over the shell of John's ear. "You were masturbating."

There it was, right when he'd dropped his defenses. John tensed minutely. "Y-yes but--" He made to turn, to face his accuser directly, but Sherlock had crowded in, effectively trapping him in. 

From his proximity, John could only watch Sherlock through the small strip of reflection he had in the mirror, trying to anticipate the next move from a man that was nothing more than a dark black blur. Leaving only the most minute slivers of pale flesh to flash forth as he moved to kiss John's jawline, then his pulse point, then his shoulder cap.

And John realized with stunning clarity that THIS was Sherlock's vengeance; a play of power between them. A silent declaration that he was reaffirming his position on being a willing, if though unaffected, participant in their continued sex life to backup his words in the bedroom. Not with anger, but with offering.

And when those sea glass eyes swept up and pinned him squarely in place, John was not wholly surprised to feel the shift of understanding rattle through both of them.

Trusting him implicitly and wanting to convey that, John let all the muscles in his body go as limp as they could without falling over, setting down the curled tube of toothpaste and going lax. Leaving only his cock to retain its solid expression and giving Sherlock whatever he wanted. Offering it to him freely.

Understanding this sacrifice, Sherlock shifted his hands to bracelet John's wrists and begin to position him to his liking, neither of them noticing when they knocked the toothpaste into the sink. His procedure was slow enough that he gave John the option to stop him any time he wished it. But he did not want. He merely watched Sherlock's icy eyes flick from him to his work and back again.

After some small adjustments and a trousered leg pressed up against his naked arse to shift his center of gravity forward, Sherlock had manipulated John into leaning up with locked elbows onto the vanity's top. His hands were braced wide on the bottom corners of the sink, which effectively put all of his weight up onto the balls of feet. It was a very purposeful stance that forced his arse to stick out like a tart and his face to be pressed mere centimetres from the mirror. Blinding him to everything but that solitary stripe of cleared glass and what lay reflected in it.

The flush of exposure only seemed to add to the heat of John's arousal, and by proxy added to the suffocating heat of the bathroom. At last satisfied, Sherlock leant back and inspected John's pert bum like a patron admiring an oil painting. Even going to far as to curl a contemplative finger beneath his chin in consideration.

"Were you thinking about me while you did it?" Sherlock asked, finally breaking the silence. He reached out and took John's hips and tilted him a little higher, seeming to have found something interesting there and wanting to expose it to the light. It put John further up onto his toes, his calves straining. His sex throbbing anew.

"Ye-eeESS! Of course." John gasped sharply as Sherlock fingers pressed into the bruises on the back of John's thighs and squeeeeezed. At the sudden reflaring of sharp, delicious pain, John groaned wantonly at the same time his cock wept a thick blurb of precome into the sink.

"But you didn't finish. Why?" His deep baritone sounded entirely unaffected.

"Thought you'd--oh Jesus," Without warning, Sherlock had dropped down onto his haunches, keeping a hand on John's thigh as he did so and doing something that brushed the inside of John's ankles with his other, keeping John suspended in anticipation and effectively left gasping when nothing happened except for the clatter of the cupboard's door. When Sherlock rose again, he was brandishing a half-empty bottle of baby oil that he'd scrounged up and John had to swallow the excess saliva pooling in his mouth at the images suddenly racing through his mind. "Thought you'd be upset." 

"No." Sherlock met his eyes, looking wicked. "Your body is yours. You can do with it as you wish. But if you would allow me the same courtesies on occasion?" He tilted the bottle questioningly. "I'd like to do with it as /you/ wish as well. May I finish you now?"

John nodded enthusiastically. "Of course. Yes. Sherlock, please."

Smiling an impish smile, Sherlock's hands disappeared behind John's back, low enough to where John could not see them anymore. Having to rely instead upon his imagination to match the sounds he was hearing to the motiojs being made. The slow drizzle of oil into those large palms, the sucking gargle of the squeezed bottle retaking air, that rhythmic squelching as Sherlock worked the oil onto and around his fingers, making sure that they were liberally coated.

In the indeterminable amount of time it took for Sherlock's hands to end up tickling against the soft invisible hair peachfuzzing John's arse, John had begun to tremble with anticipation. His fingers were slipping on the ceramic. His breath coming out in heavy pants. His cock throbbing like a monster and dribbling merrily.

"I said I would facilitate your pleasure in any way I could John and I stand by that statement." Sherlock said, leaning closer without coming into contact and it was a feat so preposterous that it nearly had John whimpering in regret. "I will take what is mine. If you will give it to me."

Between one blink and the next, John became alarmed by his forehead bumping the medicine cabinet, completely unaware that he'd lost all faculties in his neck muscles and hoped that he hadn't just made that small whine that he'd very positively heard just happen. 

His arse inched up a fraction more. The suspense of those hands making him so brainless that John was fighting with every fiber of his being from simply /pushing back/ and getting that contact he so desperately craved. Even if it would only be just a paltry touch until Sherlock chose otherwise.

"John?"

"Anything." He licked his lips as a mass of condensation drooled down the hot mirrored glass in front of him. "I'm ...fingers. Sherlock. Please." He couldn't bother to be mortified by his diction. He was absolutely done with talking.

Sherlock grinned in a way that John felt in his bones and without breaking eye contact, placed his slickened middle fingertip to John's furled hole as requested. John twitched, blowing out a strained exhale through his nose with his jaw locked up tight. A gentle circled pressure against /there/ had his breath picking up and hissing from his nose like a bull, leaning hard into his wrists.

He nodded when Sherlock paused again.

The first cautious breach had John releasing a strangled groan and quickly realizing that Sherlock was starting out with /two/ fingers. He was even more surprised by the fact that without much effort that taut little muscle was welcoming them at once, as he had apparently already loosened it considerably in the shower. 

John's fingers curled tight around the counter's edge, needing a firmer grip as those longer, more practiced fingers never stopped in their long slow slide up inside him, piercing all the way up to Sherlock's true knuckles before stopping. 

And not moving again.

John found himself pierced to the quick and panting heavily again because of it. Barely gathering enough focus to lift his head and see what had stopped him. But Sherlock was just looking at him, watching his eyes through the mirror and waiting for John to react. That wicked little grin still curling the corner of his mouth telling him so. John felt perfectly corked.

"Sherlock. Please." John breathed.

"Hm?" Sherlock's other slicked hand rose up to take John's hot prick into its grasp, offering one long gorgeous stroke before it too came to a stop, poised right beneath the corona.

The fingers in his arse curled upwards, pushing back against John's flesh from the interior, while Sherlock's thumb on the same hand pressed into the top of his cleft from the other side, just beneath his coccyx. Essentially pinching the thick, muscled skin between his fingertips, giving them a little rub as if he were feeling the quality of cloth. Affecting a sensation that was...it was...

John licked his lips.

"Hmn. Please." John couldn't stop from rocking microscopically against the notquitetickle, trying to make Sherlock move besides that insufficient sensation in his arse.

"Your pleasure is yours to take, John." Sherlock whispered deeply. "All you have to do is take it."

When it became clear that John still wasn't getting it, that there was possibly too much blood taking precedence in other places rather than his brain, the nibbling of Sherlock's fingers stopped and he began to direct the proceedings. "Move forward. Slowly."

On autopilot, John pushed his hips forward. Those side-by-side fingers sliding slickly out of him all the way until he felt the uneven edge of fingernails at his anus' rim, while the pinching thumb stretched forward to remain touching him all the while, giving it balance. Simultaneously, on the opposite side of him, his cock pressed gloriously through that oiled ring of fingers until it met the soft thatch of his pubic hair. 

The light squeeze to his root made him stop. Allowed to revel in the feeling of being anchored to that touch, yet allowed enough lead to go where he wanted. Getting a feel for being tethered.

"Backward now. Same pace."

With his knuckles blanched white, John pressed backward and reveled in the feeling of Sherlock's perfectly tight hand sliding back up his cock to its glans and those ridiculously long and knobbled fingers sinking back into his arse. John's jaw was lost to the ground by now and it was a miracle he wasn't drooling.

"Again."

And again he moved.

For the most part John was allowed to dictate the speed to his liking. Sherlock only whispering monosyllabic suggestions from time to time when John went to chase his pleasure too fiercely and come too soon. He would mutter, "slow, deep, long, fast," in perfect orchestration to stretch out John's lust until it became brittle and crystalline. Just the shy edge of too much.

John quickly learned that the only true control he had were the simple machinations of his own body, while Sherlock held all other power between his own two hands. He dictated everything by the way John's body tensed, by the way he breathed, taking him up to the edge of orgasm before forcing him to ratchet back down and repeat the process over and over and over again. Skillfully avoiding even the slightest whispering brush of John's prostate. Not allowing him such easy closure.

And somewhere in his fading focus, John registered that what had once been two fingers piercing him soundly had now turned into three, triangle-tipped, and giving his hole a sharp little tug of fullness whenever he met the base of his fingers, which with each press backward to impale himself upon, was deliciously tempered with Sherlock adding a scandalous twist to his cockhead.

He knew he was sweating and shivering and moaning lowly now and could do nothing to stop it. His arms ached. His toes flared on the tile. A muscle threatened to cramp in his calf. And it was not but for the grace of the vanity and those genius fingers working him skilfully that he still remained upright, soldered to those kaleidoscope eyes that never left his in the mirror. 

He honestly couldn't fathom how much longer he could keep this up.

"This time John." Came the next directions, because Sherlock /knew/. Of course he did. Sherlock's voice was always clear through the fog. "I want you to come. Hard and fast now." He watched through suffocating sweat as Sherlock shifted and replanted his feet wider, giving himself a more stable base by which John could administrate himself, his eyes stabbing like a knife through the heart.

"Do it."

And without a thought, without focus, without HIM, John's body moved. Working a tight and frantic rhythm between those two glorious hands. His hips thumped against the vanity, his eyes threatening to close as his moans vibrated with ardour. 

Back and forth and backandforth and backnforthnbacknforthnback!

The circled hand about his cock cinched more tightly, pulling him more keenly, while those three fingers behind seemed to fill up his entire posterior as they were splayed out and buried deep inside as he thrust back. Never leaving him, never faltering. Remaining the vehicle for his pleasure for all the time he needed and in the crescendo of sound emitted from his groaning throat and slurping arse and thumping bones and the IRREVOCABLE PULL of those ludicrous eyes in the mirror brought everything all at once into a beautiful cornucopia of moment that took him straight up the to peak of orgasm and finally cast him straight off the cliffside.

He came almost violently, crying out a worshipping "Sherlock!" very loudly, while hot shooting ribbons of ejaculate sprayed out before him. The first spurt was so forceful and tipped in just the perfect way, that it managed to spatter clear up onto the medicine cabinet, spitting right across Sherlock's dark reflection. 

And with the last valiant efforts of his consciousness, John glimpsed that smear of proud spunk strike home and make it look as though Sherlock's face had been striped liberally with John's cum. 

With that, John's legs gave out beneath him. Dropping him like a fifteen stone sack of bliss.

He would have crumpled, but for the iron grip that caught him about the ribs and held him tight. That lissome body pressed into his back and wedging him upright against the sink, so wet and hot that it was a conundrum to decide which of them was more hot or more wet as compared to the other and who started and ended where. 

Sherlock's shirt was soaked through with sweat, his curls limp with moisture, his neck sparkling with condensation. Sherlock was panting just as hard as John was, his face buried in John's neck, his heart pounding just as madly as the blood rushing through John's ears and John had the overwhelming urge to turn around in Sherlock's arms and hug right back hard enough to leave bruises. Tell him it was alright. That he loved him. That he was everything.

But the best he could do was lift a flopping hand and give a small pat to Sherlock's forearm. One he hoped would convey all that he could not say or do or thank him for. Just until he could regain his strength to actually do it. And he hoped it would suffice.

They remained like this for a very long while, breathing at each other, taking their cues from one another, not breaking the moment until Sherlock regained his strength enough to raise two fingers to press against John's neck - the ones he'd had buried deep into John's arse just before - to take his pulse, and John could only snort in surprise as he realized it was no surprise at all.

John's snort was met with a small grin, and that small grin was met with another larger grin, and soon both men were smiling and hiccuping through hearty, open chuckles as thick and beautiful as the night they time they had shared at the bottom of the stairs, after having just chased a murderous taxi through the streets of London and had come to know one another so effortlessly.

//

And in their blinding happiness, neither men deigned to notice that of the twenty-odd-headed flytrap left abandoned on the sink's wet edge to silently witness them; seven of those heads had snapped shut to simultaneously feast upon meals most unnatural to them.


	10. The Adventures of the Man on Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A surprise pops up and dubious things go down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright guys, there is SOOOOO MUCH going on in this chapter and there was a slight moment of panic when my children deleted it from my Kindle as i was just about done writing it. but i found it on backup and it's all okay. anyway, I hope you're ready for this. take a pee break now cause it ain't stopping to wait for you. brace yourself for disgustingly graphic descriptions of corpses, more emotionally temultuous sex, a slight bending of London bridge locales, and two friends being horrible because that's how they show their love.
> 
> I originally gave myself the deadline of September, but as I gave that a little wave as it went sailing by I set my stoney sights on today and BAM! I fucking did it!! hooray. sorry for the delay.
> 
> but thanks for sticking with me!!
> 
> oh yes. the piece that Sherlock plays later in the chapter is Sibelius' Violin Concerto in D minor [ http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FujHJSzATQQ ] which is my ABSOLUTE FAVORITE piece of classical music ever in the history of the planet. but also, since I tried to write my description of it being played in time with the actual music, i've listened to it so much i'm sick of it. but hopefully if you're in a curious mood you can follow along and figure out each part as I described it and it's new enough to you that you'll hear its beauty...
> 
> without further ado, enjoy. :}

CHAPTER TEN - The Adventures of the Man in Flames

It took a long while for John's legs to hold his weight again. He'd managed to shoo Sherlock from the bathroom after several reassurances that he was fine and a joke that he'd need to be alone in order to properly clean himself up again. But when the door had closed behind him, John had had to move quickly to rebrace himself against the vanity before his trembling legs could drop him.

And he took a moment to laugh at himself. 

Not in his wildest dreams could he have imagined his body orgasming this much in a twenty-four hour period and still being able to function, post-injury or not. He hadn't felt this virile since he'd been in his late teens and certainly never so satiated in his entire life. And it made him feel foolishly giddy.

When he had made himself (and the bathroom mirror) once more decent, John reamerged fully dressed to find the flat awaiting him in a comfortable quiet. The television had been turned on in the sitting room, but turned down low, reminding him that there was a bigger, broader world still going on normally outside the walls of 221B despite its enitre axis having shifted irrevocably. 

To his left, John could hear Sherlock just inside his bedroom and when he shifted his weight to peek into the open doorway, found Sherlock standing profile before his open wardrobe, seemingly contemplating his clothes. He had just finished peeling off his wet black shirt and was hanging it up to dry. Long limbs moving slowly and broad hands carefully spreading the sopping fabric over the hangar. His hair still glistened with clinging moisture, though the curls had begun to resume their weightlessness once more.

It was somewhat surreal, to be suddenly out of those small confined places of John's bedroom and the bathroom, where they had been sharing things so desperately intimate, and to know that the same feelings were still being carried between the both of them. That the presence of a wider space could do nothing to quell such happiness and make them no less palpable in the full light of day.

John allowed himself a moment to admire Sherlock's naked torso at the same time Sherlock paused to consider a new shirt with his hands planted aesthetically on his hips. Each man proximally aware of each other, yet neither willing to break the voyeuristic moment.

John let his eyes linger on the subtle slope of Sherlock's shoulders, the way his white skin fit around those long sleek muscles. The way his ribs curved into his back curved into the advent of his arse in the same scrolling motion as the f-holes on his violin. Looking like a work of art. Looking as though he'd been carved from a thousand years of tradition.

Unfathomably, John's cock gave a suggestive twitch and he couldn't stop his quiet snort in disbelief.

A glance from the corner of Sherlock's eye had John biting his cheek to keep from grinning too madly and finally shuffling away towards the kitchen with both ears burning. And despite having to walk on still shivering legs, John practically /floated/ over to the caffetiere.

The stack of fuzzy petri dishes still teetered precariously on the edge of the kitchen table like a game. Sherlock's microscope abandoned in the center of the tabletop with the slide still clipped in place and John mooned at the knowledge of what it had all been abandoned for. 

But he immediately squashed the buoyed warmth that threatened to wash over him. Sobering just in time for Sherlock to emerge from his room, slipping the last of his buttons into place and tucking the bottom of his favoured plum-coloured shirt into his trousers when they both caught eyes. Neither man able to properly stifle their smiles.

"Still up for some coffee?" Asked John, turning back to the worktop in time with the swoop in his stomach. He heard Sherlock give a noise in agreement and slide into his chair, the distinctive snapping of a slide being replaced on the microscope's stand. 

The practiced ritual of making coffee for two did wonders to temper John's giddiness and settle out his nerves.

With his RAMC mug freshly cleaned and the coffees mixed accordingly, John turned back and set Sherlock's cup down beside him, leaning in to give a peck to Sherlock's temple and stayed when he felt Sherlock lean into it.

It felt good, to be testing out the boundaries of this new relationship. And it gave him hopes as to what might be allowed between them when they were seen out together now. Obviously Sherlock wasn't embarrassed by semi-public kissing, given how he'd practically /climbed/ into John's mouth at the morgue. Though that had been only for a small audience and for admittedly practical purposes. Would he show the same affection around others now that they were together? How were they expected to act at crime scenes? The Work came first, of course. So perhaps it would be best to let Sherlock make the first move...

Or maybe, John supposed, it was something they could discuss or --but God his hair smelled good.

John pulled back before it got too embarrassing. "So. What's on the agenda for today? Anything cracking?" He asked, going for ambivalence as he picked up the top most petri dish and held it up to the window's light. He wanted to finally see what had Sherlock so invested.

The sellotape stretched across the top was marked 'DOOR 22:08' in Sherlock's whippy scrawl and that curl of interest morphed into a dark cruel speck that seemed to prick a hole straight through the center of John's seemingly unsinkable happiness.

It was this sixth sense of trepidation that'd done him well in Afghanistan. That biting, buzzing sort of insistence that crawled up John's spine and tickled his Apricot, telling him that something was wrong but not being loud enough to say precisely what it was without the proper exposure. Only letting him know that something simply wasn't /right/.

He stared fixedly at the vasoline-coloured agar, which bloomed brightly with large yellow colonies, willing the sight to prod loose this dark feeling like a rotten tooth.

He picked up another dish. And then another, holding them up. A couple more dishes deep and John was greeted by the sight of a strip of sellotape reading 'MAG 22:12' and another called 'FAUC 21:56'. John felt a lead weight drop into his guts when he looked down and spotted the one scraped dish he'd carelessly noticed before his shower still left open to the room. Still left with the knife gleaming nefariously across its open surface. He wondered /really/ how long that'd been sitting there like that and that ominous feeling grew ten-fold.

In his doctor's brain, John KNEW that it would take areal dispersal or physical touch to actually transfer whatever it was growing in that disc to spread into the flat, but the deeper, more recessed part of his brain that was bundled up in fear and caution and the white-knuckled armrest gripping that now and forever would be synonymous with any sort of mask being lowered over his face, gave him a deeply seeded sense of foreboding

"There's to be a televised breaking news conference in approximately two minutes," Sherlock referenced his watch before jumping to his feet, his movement causing John to startle from his contemplation. He made towards the sitting room with his coffee. "We should be ready."

John hesitated to follow, still eyeing the suspicious discs. He could hear Sherlock mumbling words that weren't loud enough for John to distinguish. "Ready for what?" He asked numbly but Sherlock was already turning the volume on the telly up.

"Sherlock?" John prompted, finally coming out into the sitting room with his own coffee in hand, ready to face the conundrum head-on. "Why you've brought so much bacteria into the flat?"

Sherlock's eyes didn't leave the screen, his voice on auto-pilot. "Experiment."

John tallied them up in his head, ignoring how tight his voice had gotten. "Just how many experiments have you got going on right now?"

"A few." Sherlock said irritably, almost giving John a half-glance. "Is that a problem?"

"No, I just--" but it really didn't sit well with John, this leaning tower of sickness currently taking space on their dinner table. He couldn't let it pass with silent good humour. He rubbed at the prickle at the back of his neck. "Well, yes. I think I object to bacteria being brought here. Call me crazy, seeing as how I don't mind the other stuff all that much given the state of our fridge, but just not ...this."

Light eyes finally flashed in his direction. "What? Why?"

John sighed in annoyance. "Well, maybe it's because I have to deal with the symptoms of it enough at work and we're not exactly set up with secure laboratory conditions in there. But maybe it's mostly because I don't fancy risking myself to exposure if I need to use the dinner table." His voice was growing in volume and he checked himself before it could leave him yelling. "Look. I think it'd just be better if you took this particular one to Bart's. Okay? Do your experiment there."

"It's not as if any of it is a threat to you." Sherlock tried, waving his hand at the (to him) completely harmless discs languishing quietly in the kitchen. "Your immune system's not compromised in any way and they're almost entirely innocuous. And despite your concerns, I'll take all necessary precautions to keep accidents from happening." When John's shoulders didn't come down from their tight posture in his periphery, Sherlock finally turned fully to observe him. It also helped that an advertisement had flashed up on the screen simultaneously and severed his focus. "Does it really make you that uncomfortable?"

John pursed his lips in consternation, looking down at his socks. "I believe I /did/ just finish telling you about my time in hospital where a bacteria almost /killed me/. So, yeah, it might a bit. But look, I'm not saying you can't do it at all. I'm just saying not here. Alright? Take your bacteria somewhere else." 

Sherlock seemed to study him for a concentrated moment.

"Fine." He finally sniffed and turned back to his preoccupation.

John blinked in surprise. He had expected it to be a much harder fight. "Really? Just like that?" 

Sherlock shrugged. "Certainly."

"You're serious?"

"Mmm. Yes."

John squinted at his dark curls more closely, trying to find the angle. He pushed the issue further. "So were you going to have them out today? I can find you a box to put them in, maybe give Molly a call--" anything to move the process along.

"Certainly not." Sherlock's scoffed at the utter idea. "There's no time now."

John shifted on his feet. "Well then when were you planning to--"

"You may fetch me a box for the bacterium if it satisfies your efforts in expediency, but I'll do the packing. I'll not let you mishandle my viruses. Doubtless you would even be able to distinguish them by sight anyhow."

John's body went immediately rigid, his eyebrows shooting up in disbelief. "Sorry? What!"

"/Viruses./ John. Honestly." Sherlock rumbled, inching up the telly's volume a couple bars more. As if to drown out John's indignation.

"You just told me they were innocuous!" John's voice was threatening to rise again.

Sherlock, begrudgeingly, muted the television as a shampoo commercial flashed on. "I told you that /most/ of them were innocuous, if you'll properly recall." He glanced up at John's clenched jaw. "Oh, do relax John. It's nothing more harmful than influenza and you've already had this year's vaccine jab so you'd be perfectly fine SHOULD anything go awry, which it won't. You have my word." Almost, as an afterthought, he added proudly, "I took the liberty of wiping down the various surfaces of your clinic last night when I came to fetch you from work, so it's nothing you've not come into contact with before. See? All better."

And suddenly it all clicked into focus. The names and the timestamps scrawled on the sellotape: DOOR. MAGAZINES. FAUCET. Sherlock had willingly gathered samples from the place John /worked/ and brought them home to /study/. As an EXPERIMENT! Because he had nothing on better to do.

He was still mumbling as John's fist flexed dangerously next to his thigh.

"I suppose I can see how bacteria could be so offensive to you. But honestly, if it's going to vex you so much, next time you make an agreement with someone, I would recommend including all possible variables within the parameters and systematically eliminating them from consideration. 

"You have, in your ignorance, left open a large quantity of undesirable things by which I could procure and currently have in the flat: fungi, protozoa, helminths...honestly, I would have better understood your disagreeing with helminths more than--" Sherlock's posture became instantaneously rigid. "Hush John!"

But John's jaw was tensed so tightly he couldn't speak now if he wanted to.

A thick hulk of a man had taken center-stage on the screen, foremost to the camera as breaking news interrupted whatever had been initially playing. Behind him stood a stern-looking DI Lestrade and a smug Sergeant Donovan, both dressed sharply in dark suits, positioned next to a large blown-up picture of the red-headed orthodontist John and Sherlock'd just seen less than 48 hours previous. Behind them was a wall of uniformed Community Support Officers and slowly rotating above them all was the rectangular prism of the sign of NEW SCOTLAND YARD. It had been set up cunningly like a compositional photograph.

There was the ubiquitous flashing of cameras, the murmur of news reporters offscreen, and the buzz of traffic beneath it all.

The man in the foreground stood with a sober expression above the microphones. His face held in a perpetual frown, looking like one would imagine a hard-boiled copper might look this late into his career. Crusty and solemn. As if he'd seen the worst of a bad lot and took it all straight in his features. He had small, dark eyes the glinted flintily despite the overcast day. The fat knuckles he had curling around the podium looked as though they'd been broken more than a few times.

Beneath him, a marquee scrolled by, exclaiming that NSY had taken a murder suspect into custody. 

"He's recently been left by his fourth wife..." Sherlock was mumbling under his breath, stroking his chin introspectively as he looked intently at the man. 

A new prompt flashed up on the screen, identifying the man as the one and only Detective Inspector Tobias Gregson as he bent down to speak into the microphones. "If everyone could just quiet down." His soft voice was a bit unnerving, seeming to undermine the roughness of his face and take his whole persona to a rather menacing level.

"First of all, I would like to thank you all for joining us today. New Scotland Yard would like to thank the public for its patience and cooperation while this investigation was underway. We'd like to apologize for any delay on the Tube the public might have experienced while we worked tirelessly to get your streets safe once more. 

"I am Detective Inspector Tobias Gregson and I have made it my personal crusade to lead an investigation into the murders of one Mr. Athelny Jones and Mr. Nathan Ollery. Two victims who were both found dead under suspicious circumstances earlier this week. We understand the stranglehold the city's been under concerning these two individuals' deaths and are happy to announce that after an exhausting investigation," he gave a small smile that looked like it strained his face, "certain evidence has come to light which has helped us in bringing in our main suspect." 

The crush before him erupted into murmuring, a couple having the audacity to clap and John glanced at Sherlock, who had had no reaction at all. 

Gregson continued after raising a quieting hand. "We've called this conference to proudly announce that a Mr. Sterling Sipe of central London, was taken into police custody yesterday morning. He has since been charged under the suspicion of both murders."

While the DI talked, a man with a distraught face and large glasses could be seen edging his way in from the side of the screen. He seemed to hesitate briefly before sidling up alongside Lestrade, deciding he was the person to tell, and cupped his hand over his mouth to whisper something discreetly in his ear.

Lestrade's face instantly fell while his eyes widened. Sally glanced at him sidelong but kept her composure and suspicion in check, flicking at her hair. 'You're sure?' The DI mouthed in response to whatever the man had said and the awkward paper pusher nodded back in the gravest agreement. 

"John." Sherlock leaned forward like a pointer catching a scent, his eyes narrowed, his body taut. His voice was nothing more than an intense whisper. If it hadn't been for John's quick snatch, his coffee wouldn't have made it onto the side table. John set his down too. Just to be safe.

Lestrade came forward on the screen, heedless of the consequences and took Gregson by shoulder, turning his back to the cameras and relaying whatever information he'd just been told, effectively silencing Gregson's indignation.

"What!?" Gregson blurted, loud enough to not need the microphones to be heard.

Lestrade simultaneously became distracted by something and fished his phone from his pocket, ignoring the growing rumble of the media behind them. Some were beginning to ask ignored questions their way, crowding in like a wolf pack on their prey. Smelling blood in the air.

Sherlock pulled his phone from his own pocket, his mouth slightly open in excitement. His fingers tight.

"I don't understand. What's going on?" John said.

Sherlock said nothing, staring at his mobile intently. John's eyes flicked back and forth from Sherlock to the television, waiting for something to happen. Some sort of clue.

After a very long breathless moment, Sherlock's phone buzzed with an incoming message.

"Aha." Sherlock's thumb flashed through his lock like lightning, revealing the screen. "AHA!"

He sprang up so fast John took a surprised step back, hand raised to his head in defense. Sherlock was fully standing on his chair now, fists in the air, a huge smile splitting his face. "Oh! This is BRILLIANT!" He bounded down and was at the door in two strides, plucking his coat from the rack and winding his scarf about his neck. "Come along John! Grab your shoes and coat! We're going to be expected!"

"Expected where? Wha-Sherlock! Where are we going?" Caught up in his wake, John grabbed up his coat, pulling himself into it while simultaneously jamming his feet into his shoes. He was out the door in moments, following the thundering feet that were already halfway down the stairs.

Sherlock threw his head back in a triumphant laugh as John rounded the landing, tossing his phone over his face as he leapt the last four steps in complete joy.

John caught the phone by utter necessity and oriented the screen, careful not to twist his ankle taking the rest blind. 

'Body found.' It read. 'Battersea Bridge. Thames. Come immediately.' - Anderson

//

It was cold enough to see his breath as he stepped out of the taxi and John pulled his collar up against it. Sherlock was already a dark smudge off the side of the bridge and nearing the river, flapping around in his exaggerated manner. He had bolted from the taxi almost before it'd come to a complete stop. 

John noted that traffic had begun to clog up on the bridge; rubberneckers trying to catch a glimpse of what they could. No doubt drawn to the sight of an ambulance parked conspicuously on the footpath that ran parallel to the Thames down below.

The crime scene itself, which was closer to the water's edge, was taped off with a handful of Public Support Officers standing idle about it. All of them watching Sherlock with piqued interest. 

The detective would crouch down, stand back up, walk some paces, walk back, then crouch down again before contorting his head nearly sideways in an effort to get a look at whatever it was he had found so interesting. From afar, it looked as though Sherlock was examining a rather large pale rock covered in brown moss, but beyond that, John could see no body.

He nodded to an officer with a familiar face who allowed him to duck under the tape without protest and he half-walked, half-sank his way down the muddy bank to the crime scene below. The closer he got to the Thames, the thicker the sheet of ice crusting over the ground grew and the colder the wind seemed to whip.

As he came nearer, the details of that pale rock began to become more discernable. Transmogrifying to include bumps and definitions he hadn't been able to see previously. And when he realized what exactly it was that he was /actually/ seeing, he frowned deeply. "That's not a body."

What he'd been mistaking for a rock, was in fact, a severed head.

"Poignant observation John, as ever." Sherlock said brightly, too excited to chastise him. He was sitting on his haunches, careful to keep his knees and bum off the ground. His coat had been unbuttoned to keep from impeding his work, and its tail wound around atop his lap to keep it from the mud. He craned over the head once again, leaning in as much as his tight trousers would allow him, which meant that his long legs were being spread incredibly wide, pulling the fabric taut over his crotch.

And damn him for suddenly deciding NOW to be so bloody observant, but John couldn't help but notice the two proud pricks of erect nipples standing out on his chest through that tight purple shirt to go along with that unmistakable bulge. 

John crossed his arms over his chest, digging his fingertips into the back of his arm hard enough to hurt. Refocusing his priorities, as it would look awfully bad to be sporting a woody at a murder scene.

He licked his lips and focused on the partial corpse instead.

The head's eyes were closed and its tongue jutted out to an extreme length, nearly touching its jawline, almost as if the man (because it WAS most definitely a man) had been killed by strangulation and it had forced the tongue up his nonexistent neck.

He watched carefully as Sherlock, with black nitrile gloves on, began poking and prodding at the face. Testing the retention at its forehead, its malleability when he pinched its cheek. He picked up the tongue and slid his fingers into its mouth, hinging the jaw open wide, examining the teeth with a penlight that John handed to him without even having to ask for it. 

"Same?" John asked, synching up with him.

"Same." Sherlock nodded. 

The first and second molars were missing. There was residue under the tongue.

"Do you know when this was found?" John asked curiously to a young man standing near by.

"I don't know sir," admitted the officer, "Mr. Anderson asked us not to do anything until the Detective Inspector comes 'round. All I know is that it was found in the water."

Anderson, when they'd arrived, had been flapping about on the road, talking flamboyantly into his mobile. He must not have seen Sherlock and John exit the vehicle, or he would have been at them like an angry wasp by now.

"Shall I examine it then? While we wait?" John sighed, asking Sherlock. He needed something to do besides just stand here and freeze.

Sherlock sat back on his heels, smiling to himself and placing his fingertips together before him as his brain stirred in his head. "Yes. I believe the rest of the cavalry should be arriving shortly. They'll be expecting answers."

Sherlock took a crab-like side step over to give John enough room to inspect the head, but kept close should he need assistance.

As John maneuvered in, he noted that the head had been left with a strip of the neck flesh still hanging loose beneath it. The front, where the man's esophagus would have been was longer than in the back, as if the victim's head had been tipped back when the decapitation had been made. 

At John's instruction, Sherlock gently rolled the head onto its face and held it there, exposing the underside to the daylight and letting John get a closer look. This close to the water, the cold was burning his eyes and he had to blink multiple times to get them to clear properly. He leaned in even closer, trying to see as best he could.

"Here."

There was click and Sherlock's magnifying glass appeared in his periphery, in offering.

John felt a great swath of affection overcome him as he looked across and smiled warmly at his partner, letting his hand linger just a little bit too long on Sherlock's as he took it. Sherlock cleared his throat pointedly and nodded back towards the corpse, clearly affected but obviously saving it for later.

John cleared his throat and controlled himself. 

He knew from personal experience how hard it was to remove a head from body; given that he'd had to dissect quite a few cows' heads during his labs when he'd been training for his medical degree. So what he found was exceptionally curious.

There was suppose to have been fibrous tissue and cartilage to get through to get to the skull. A tangle of muscles that wound around the spine to keep it safe and supported, but someone had taken the time to clear out and scrape away all traces of meat around the bottom, leaving only the hollow collar of neck flesh hanging like a skirt beneath the base. 

Looking in, John could see that the spine itself had been detached roughly enough to crack a condyle, as if it had been wrenched from the man like a power cord from a socket. It left the ominous hole of his foramen magnum yawning strangely without his vertebrae to fill it.

It had obviously taken in incredible amount of time and effort to get these kind of results in a detachment. And to such a degree of cleanliness. It was simultaneously unnerving and intriguing.

He spoke his discoveries aloud to an unmoved Sherlock and moved on to investigate the skin of the neck itself.

Through the magnifying glass, John could see that the bottom edge of the cut was smooth, suggestive of having been made with an incredibly sharp knife, possibly even a medical blade in one long, concentrated stroke. Which of course meant that it had to have been performed when the man had been unconscious or even dead, as no signs of a struggle were evident.

But as he followed the line, the consistency of the cut itself became more peculiar. It seemed that the cut had begun beneath the corpse's right ear, came around the front of his throat, and immediately stopped beneath his left, leaving only a fifty millimeter stretch of skin beneath his nape that was startling jagged by contrast. 

As if during the detachment, the head had simply lolled back under its own weight and ripped completely off. 

But had the murderer really been so careless as to not have supported the head during the detachment? Why go through the trouble of beheading the man only 90% of the way?

John sat back finally, unable to garner anything more. When he spoke on his confusing findings aloud, he was met with the most minimal of hums. A small flick of his eyes had him following the sea glass gaze which was looking back up to the bridge.

A squad car had just come to a stop at the railing and they watched Lestrade and Donovan clamber out and look in their direction. John fought down the urge to give a little wave.

Anderson, who'd been shifting fitfully in the background with impatience, slithered up to their side. The look on his face when he finally noticed John and Sherlock stooping by his crime scene, was priceless. However for Donovan, their presence immediately made her decide to stay back up on the road, clearly still brooding over their last encounter and wanting nothing to do with them. 

"They look pissed." John muttered. Meeting Anderson's glare with positive indifference as the two men made their descent.

"Indeed." Sherlock muttered back, rising to his feet as the group approached.

"Ah Lestrade, how nice of you to join us." Sherlock was saying, adjusting his coat back around his lithe body. "We were just enjoying your indictment on the telly before it was so rudely interrupted. Beautiful day to find another corpse, wouldn't you say? How's Gregson?"

"Shut it." Lestrade commanded shortly. He didn't really look all that displeased up close, especially when compared to the detestation on Anderson's face. Just more beleaguered. More worn down.

It felt a bit strange, like dèja vú, to be standing on the bank of the Thames surrounding a corpse again.

Sherlock ignored the DI's brusqueness in favor of turning his attention to the little fuming man standing beside Lestrade. "Anderson. Your text was misleading."

Anderson gaped in insult, before turning to Lestrade. "I don't know how they got here before you did sir. I didn't notify him!" His drawn face screwed up in irritation as he turned back to Sherlock. "I didn't text /you/! You're not suppose to be here. How did you even know to come here?"

"I've re-routed your phone using a text-based keyword filter. I've been re-routing your phone messages for weeks now. Anything corpse-related you send to Lestrade gets immediately duplicated and forwarded to me." Sherlock sighed almost wistfully, as if he were checking his cuticles. "Think of it as an incredibly precise police blotter, without all the extraneous and wholly boring occurrences of non-murders muddling everything up. Certainly cuts down on all that tedious waiting." Sherlock said simply, completely ignoring the enraged spluttering his words had just produced. "They do seem to have some AMAZING apps out there to beta, if one simply takes the time to look."

"That's illegal!" Anderson balked.

"Only if it holds up in court..." Sherlock began, but Lestrade cut in. His tone was edging onto frustration as though he remembered where he had just come from and what he had to go back to. Not willing to hear out this battle of catty remarks any further. "Alright. That's enough. The both of you. Just tell us what you've found so we can get this over with."

Happy to move on to the main event, Sherlock sparked with excitement. "Oh, Inspector...you're in for a treat. John, would you do the honours please?"

And there it was again, another tiny yet monumental shift in their relationship that sent another warm frisson of sentiment licking through John's chest. Sherlock was ceding the floor to him IN FRONT of the Yarders. He was allowing him first crack at the spotlight and treating this partnership as an /actual/ partnership between them. Working as a team.

Admittedly, if the Met hadn't been standing about and if he weren't absolutely certain he'd get the most barbarous strop as a result of doing it; John would have kissed the selflessly selfish mad bastard on the lips right there and then.

But as it was, being the wellspring of information was awfully nice too.

John immediately recited what he'd spoken about before with Sherlock. He kept the anatomical terms to a minimum, substituting in general descriptions where he could and talking around others, if only it to keep Anderson in the loop. He showed them the strangely clean underside of the skull, proving the meticulousness of the job by how the culprit even went so far as to remove the nerves and connective tissues out of the various foramina with tweezers.

As he finished describing all of his pertinent findings, Sherlock took up the gauntlet. "Alright Anderson, we've learned all we can from a /qualified/ professional's observations. Perhaps you'd like to share your details of the small part you played. You were the officer to take the call. Tell us precisely about how the head was found."

"Wha--?" Blinking surprisedly, Anderson took a moment to gawp at whether he was being insulted or utilized. Finally deciding on the latter, he spoke, "the head was found floating at thirteen twenty-six. Approximately twenty minutes ago. A jogger reported the find when her dog had gone off-lead. We've taken her in for further questioning."

Sherlock cocked his head in interest. "She said those words specifically? That the head was found 'floating'?"

"Yes."

"Interesting..." 

"Why should THAT be interesting?" Anderson continued hottily.

Sherlock took a moment before answering, steepling his hands before his face, his eyes on the head, and a grin slicing incrementally wider and wider as something began to become perfectly clear to him. "Oh. Anderson. How delightful it must be for you to be in the company of one as evenly matched as yourself..." the genius looked up at his waiting audience. "What, ladies and gentlemen, floats?"

"Uh, very small rocks?" Lestrade said dead-pan and John couldn't help the giggle that pulsed out of him.

Sherlock flashed a glance at them both as though they were utter imbeciles trying to waylay his moment. "What floats are things less dense than the water they're in, if any of you were smart enough to finish sixth year. Salt water has a higher density, which can support things more easily, but this far up the Thames, beyond the estuary, the water fails to even be slightly brackish. So why ELSE would a human head /specifically/ float in fresh water? 

"Retention of its skin suggests the corpse has not been in the water all that long. Algor mortis has barely begun, so he's not been dead that long either, which immediately rules out accumulated gasses due to decomposing tissue. We're left with only one conclusion: and that is an excerebration.." Sherlock eyes lit up on the last word, seeming to glow.

"Oh, for the love of--." Lestrade muttered, fingers pressed into his temples like he was fighting off a headache. His breath fogged strangely out about his head, almost like a halo. "Sherlock. I think we've all had quite enough of your celebrating this..."

"Ex-CERE-bration, Greg. /Excerebration/." John corrected with a little smirk. "It means the removal of the brain."

"Oh." Lestrade huffed, his face turning into slight confusion. "What? Like the bloody Egyptians?"

"Not even remotely..." Annoyed, Sherlock's ice-colored eyes rolled skywards as if to ask the clouds for assistance at his colleagues' stupidity. "The Egyptians practiced a method called transnasal craniotomy, whereby a hole was punctured in the area of the nose, the brain stirred with a stick until it was liquified, and then summarily drained. Not precisely what we're looking at here Inspector as there's no evident trauma to the face and the simple fact that his ethmoid bone is entirely intact." 

To prove his point, Sherlock leaned down and unceremoniously shoved his first two fingers up into the head's nostrils, lifting it from the ground a couple of millimeters. Leaving no doubt that had it been broken; the head would have slid further down onto his hand with the weight. "What we're seeing here is the lesser studied method of extracting it through the /rear/ of the skull." He removed his hand and waved it as if it was all too tedious to continue talking. 

"Through the foramen magnum...amazing." John suddenly said, the muddled lens of evidence wiped suddenly clear to him. When his eyes flashed up to Sherlock's, he was gracing him with a gorgeous close-mouthed grin.

"The what?" Anderson asked, ruining the atmosphere.

"This hole here. Where the spine goes in." John turned the head face-down, tipping the bottom up towards them where the hole for the spine gaped at them like some strange eye, when something else occurred to him. "But Sherlock, if this guy's taking organs to sell on the black market, the brain would've been destroyed being taken out of there like that. It wouldn't be worth anything after. Why do it like that?"

But Sherlock wasn't listening. Instead, he was mumbling quietly to himself. His hand moving like a conductor's, though instead of leading an orchestra, Sherlock was leading his thoughts through the processies of slicing through a human throat. He mimicked the blade drawing across a neck with his hand as John had described it, then immediately turned to the water. His eyes flicking wildly in his head. His body growing stock still.

Clearly, something malevolent was coalescing, like a thunder head rolling in, and they were all about to be privy to its vicious beauty.

"It seems as though I owe you an apology Anderson." Sherlock said vacantly to the awaiting silence in the act of peeling off his gloves. He was lost in a far-away stare, looking upstream at a spot in the murky, icy water as if he could see through its dark depths. Missing the moment when all three of the other men's jaws dropped in unison.

"Ap-pologize? To /Anderson/!" Lestrade was finally able to spit out.

"John," Sherlock redirected without looking away from the water. He was untwisting his scarf from around his neck and sliding rigidly out of his coat. All movements by rote. He handed both items to John, who took them dumbly without protest. Too transfixed.

It was like something was pulling at him. A siren's song that only Sherlock could hear. "I'm going to need blankets." He said finally, taking a step away. "Lots and lots of blankets." And with that, he huffed a white cloud of frozen air, gulped some down, took two leaping steps, and dove straight into the water until nothing could be seen of him.

"SHERLOCK!" 

John was shin-deep in the Thames when Lestrade's hand on his arm stopped him from going in too. "We need blankets!" Lestrade yelled up to the idle medics, grip firm on John's sleeve, pulling him bodily back. "And crack some heatchems! That fucking idiot's going to freeze himself to death..." 

Sherlock surfaced with a pained gasp, breathing panickally from the shocking cold. "Stay clear! There's something down here!" He twisted this way and that, flinging wild sprays of water from his hands and hair. He slogged a few paces forward, dropped to his knees with a horrible squelch, and shuffled like a raccoon with searching hands beneath the brown water. Great puffs of hoary breath clouded out from his mouth. "Here! There's a body!" He held his hand stiffly beneath the water, marking the place as the first of the reluctant officers stepped into the frigid water at Lestrade's pointed nod in that direction.

It was obvious from the grimace on Sherlock's face that keeping his limbs submerged was physically painful.

His silk shirt was practically painted onto his thin frame, his trousers sticking to every curve and bump. His hair was a wet mop atop his head, giving him the appearance of a six-foot drowned cat. And it was precisely that visage that had John twisting out of Lestrade's grasp, handing him Sherlock's stuff, and about to tread deeper into the muck when some younger and more intrepid Yarders beat him to it.

With a combined effort at Sherlock's barked orders, a perfectly headless body was lifted from the water in a double sling carry and brought laboriously to shore. Meeting Sherlock halfway, John took him by the elbow, not all that surprised to feel Sherlock pull in the direction of the body. As if he were going to continue investigating.

"Oh no. Nonononono." John growled, tightening his grip on the ice-cold fabric and the freezing arm beneath and leading him towards the ambulance. "After Sherlock. You can look at it /after/."

"But John! The evidence--"

"AFTER!" John snapped. "It's a sodding corpse! It's not exactly going to go anywhere!" 

John was thanking the heavens that Sherlock was up and moving, clearly lucid, but John vaguely recalled that conscious patients found in hypothermic conditions could suddenly develop ventricular fibrillation without warning. He needed to minimize Sherlock's movements, prevent dysrhythmia, and get him dry and warm immediately.

Hearing no further argument, John snatched back the Belstaff as they went by and was manhandling Sherlock up into the back of the truck parked on the bank, waving off any assistance from the EMTs and gratefully taking a gowpen of cracked chemical heating packs in return. He asked about warming fluids for an IV to keep in mind should the need arise before the doors clanged shut behind him.

"Right. Strip." He ordered, turning and taking in the stiff but slightly hunched detective whose long arms were wrapped solidly about his sopping chest and whose wet hair was still sending rivulets of water spilling down his face and neck. Sherlock looked at a loss for what to do, standing there soaked to the bone. "All your kit. I want it off. Now."

Sherlock's limbs made a juttered effort to move, to obey, but ultimately stayed locked in place. His throat bobbing with a worried swallow and John blew out a breath, understanding. His body wasn't going to cooperate, such as it was literally /frozen/ in shock, so John worked as efficiently as possible to peel all the clothes off of Sherlock's thin frame for him from top to bottom. 

It was like pulling a snake out of its old skin. Each article removed revealing longer and longer stretches of desperately pale flesh that tightened instantly into goose flesh as it was met with warm air, his blood had retracted inwards to protect his core and left him looking almost gray. 

John kept periodically checking his pulse for anomalies as he worked.

The buttons of Sherlock's shirt had been finicky and swear-inducing with his cold fingers and Sherlock had apparently lost one of his shoes to the muck, but after finally getting him stripped completely naked, John worked a shock blanket roughly over his skin, drying what he could with what he had before wrapping the Belstaff around his shoulders and tucking the heat packs into his armpits and between his thin legs, apologizing when the back of his hand brushed Sherlock's shriveled cock accidentally.

"Transport, John. Remember?" Sherlock sniffed, his tone reluctant, as if he were testing how angry John really was at him.

Which, apparently, wasn't as angry as he'd assumed because the levity managed to make John crack a small smile, which he quickly schooled into a scowl. He was mad at him. Mad at the lengths he would go and the trouble he would get into simply in pursuit of the Work. But that also meant that he couldn't be mad at all, seeing as how the most crucial ingredient to John's previous rage had been that Sherlock had been alone. And right now, thank god, he wasn't.

John took the blanket to Sherlock's hair to cover his oscillations, soaking what would wick away and curling it resignedly about his shoulders to catch the rest.

He was stripping his hands up and down Sherlock's arms in an effort of friction now, torn as to whether he should strip his own button up off and hand it over when Sherlock read his mind.

"You could always get naked and get in here with me." Sherlock suggested and then had the audacity to raise a suggestive eyebrow. "Skin-to-skin contact /would/ be the most efficient way to get me warmed back up."

"Shut up Sherlock." John muttered half-heartedly and rubbed all the more briskly, avoiding the warmth in his eyes. "Things aren't that dire yet."

There was a moment of silence, before Sherlock's stiffness turned to concrete beneath him and a slightly awed look came over him. "Ah. There it is." Came the whisper in slight surprise.

"There's what?" John asked, screwing down his panic and pressing his fingers back into Sherlock's throat.

"The after drop." And as if on cue, Sherlock began to shiver violently. "The h-h-half d-degree temp-p-perature drop com-m-mon in ind-d-dividuals exp-p-p-periencing expos-s-s-sure to c-c-c-cold." His teeth chattered uncontrollably as he spoke. John rubbed his palms all the more vigorously up and down Sherlock's arms. Leave it to Sherlock bloody Holmes to be monitoring his own internal temperature. "We n-n-need to r-r-raise m-my c-c-c-core temperat-t-ture."

"Stop talking then. Losing all your hot air's not doing you any good." He debated the warming IV again in his head, finding it easy to ignore the scowl he recieved, as it was somewhat lessened by the racking tremors coursing through the great wet git. "It'll be a bloody miracle you don't get sick from this."

'or sick from swallowing the water.' John thought to himself, eyes roving to find anything that might be used as a bucket should the need arise.

Sherlock saw his searching and rolled his eyes, or a close approximation, at least. "I d-d-didn't asp-p-p-perate any water, J-j-john. I'm f-f-f-fine." Sherlock tried his 'don't be an idiot' look, only to abort it halfway through to pinch the Belstaff tighter around his body at an especially hard fit.

"You're an idiot's more like." John chided back without much heat, a little bit annoyed at how affectionate his tone kept being. "Sit down before you fall down."

He guided Sherlock back onto the gurney as there was a knock on the ambulance door.

Lestrade stood outside, holding up a gym bag and a large green thermos. "Thought this might help a bit." He nodded towards the bag, "it's got my work out stuff in there. Might be a little short on 'im but it's about the only thing we've got around here that'll do for now." He craned his neck to see past John's shoulder. "You're just lucky they're clean. They've been in the boot. I haven't made it to the gym yet." Sherlock mumbled a stuttering, disparaging remark at that, but John just took the proffered items appriciatively. "Ta, very much Greg." 

When the doors shut again to keep in the heat, Sherlock was practically buzzing, having moved on from being flirty, apparently. "Oh, J-j-john. Do you und-d-derstand the sign-n-n-nificance of this? Hand those o-o-o-over. I must get b-b-back out th-th-th-there. I hav-v-ve to--" 

John cut him off abruptly. "In a mo. First you need to finish this." He pushed the first cup of steaming soup into the hands of the glaring detective, not taking no for an answer. "ALL of this. Get your body temp back up. And no more talking."

When Sherlock grumpily drained the first one, he was pressured to eat a second and third, until he claimed he was feeling nauseous with fullness and no longer trying to shiver out of his skin. He went to open his mouth again, but John cut him off at the pass. "Pass me over the heat packs and get dressed. Then tell me what you were going to say."

"I thought you were my partner." Sherlock grumbled, taking the soft heavy clothes John had produced from the bag in exchange. "All you seem to be doing is a decidedly good impression of a mother hen."

"I think the term your looking for is /your doctor/. And if that's the case, then I'll be both." John said shamelessly, not at all shy to watch Sherlock sitting there on the gurney getting redressed, figuring Lestrade wouldn't be too pressed to get his clothes back after Sherlock wore them commando. 

When he was finished dressing, John stepped closer to lower his face and hide his want to laugh.

Sherlock looked absolutely ridiculous. Lestrade's dove gray sweatpants only reached as far as mid-calf on Sherlock, despite being pushed down to a precariously low level on his hips. The sockless trainers did little to hide the pale stems of his white ankles, and his long arms seemed to dangle comically out of the black sweatshirt's nonexistent sleeves, having been cut off at the shoulders in an effort to look cool, presumably. To cap it all off, Lestrade had a significantly shorter torso, so the sweatshirt managed to ride up around Sherlock's belly at every move, revealing of the soft V of his abdomen in tantalising flashes that made John's belly flutter with delight.

Finally, Sherlock had re-buttoned his wool coat around his ensemble and held out his arms indignantly. "Is this sufficient? Will you allow me outside now, /doctor/?"

"Thirty seconds more. Open." John turned back around from where he'd been fishing through the ambulance's equipment.

"Oh for God's sake!' Sherlock growled, becoming all the more irritated at John's procrastination.

Understanding, but not caring in the least, John took him by the lapel and pulled him down into a kiss to ease his anguish, making it count. He backed off after a little while, just as Sherlock had begun to want to make it heavier. It had seemed to work wonderfully for calming him down. He kept it in the back of his mind to use later. "God, your lips are freezing. Open." And when Sherlock begrudgingly obliged, John slid the thermometer beneath his tongue and tapped his jaw for him to close.

The thermometer beeped a few seconds later and Sherlock snatched it out of his mouth, handing it over. "If you're quite finished..."

John looked at the temp and assessed the man. He HAD sat patiently under John's administrations, despite there being a corpse /right/ outside the door just waiting to be disseminated. And he had stopped shivering and looked more like a human with the blood returned to skin level. "I suppose it'll have to do." He sighed and could barely get out of the way before Sherlock was brushing past him, taking only the briefest of moments to press a kiss to John's hair.

John had cleaned up the ambulance and exited just as Sherlock was finished hovering around the body, inspecting and evaluating, while Lestrade smirked unabashedly at his ankles and Anderson hid barely veiled snorts of outright laughter behind his hand.

But Sherlock was too occupied to notice. 

John trailed behind Sherlock and did his own investigation of the body. The man was wearing a decadent bespoke, like the others, which had failed to lose its beautiful lines despite being water-logged. His jacket and shirt had been pulled open, exposing a fit but pale and completely unflawed body beneath. The killer had apparently not needed any organs from the man's torso, it seemed.

Roaming up towards the neck, John found that the neck aberrations that he'd been so intrigued with on the head's flesh corresponded exactly with the torso's. Smooth single cut around the throat, only to turn jagged at the nape. These were definitely two parts of the same man.

Sherlock's adamant voice broke into his perusal.

"You clearly do not understand the significance of this, Lestrade! According to the London Bridge tide tables, this has all been orchestrated. Perfectly synchronised for the discovery of the head to happen just as Gregson was giving his speech about taking a suspect into custody! The WRONG suspect! 

"See here. The body was put into the water, the neck severed just to the point of tenuous hold, enough to keep him together until the buoyancy of the water was able to pull the head away to the surface to be found." Sherlock threw his head back in a pleased bark of laughter. "Do you understand? The killer's toying with us. He KNOWS we're onto him. He purposely used Sipe as a red herring. Leading the Yard's investigation astray only to bring US back on his path. He's moving the game pieces on the board in our direction. He wants to be found. But not by that oafish moron Gregson! He wants ME to get him. He couldn't have planned this better if he'd plugged in some neon lights that said 'HELLO! COME AND GET ME!'."

In the midst of his tirade and with a grave set to her pretty features, Donovan had made her way down to them. Her jaw was set tightly, her heels ruined from the mud. Her focus was on Lestrade and Lestrade alone. "Gregson's on one, Inspector. He's about to go 'round the twist. He wants all the facts you have so far. He's desperate for anything."

"Desperate to save his unsaveable career, you mean?" Sherlock said unkindly.

Lestrade eyed Sherlock cautiously before answering. "Tell him there's a head and a body found separated down here. Victim fits the same profile as the others. No identification found in his poncy suit. Same two teeth missing. Residue under the tongue. Blonde. Male. Fit. Late thirties. " He cocked his head, making an educated guess. "Five-foot what? Six? Hard to say without a head..."

"That'd make him as tall as me." John said casually, mostly to himself. He was staring at the headless body, trying to imagine it all put together. His arms were over his chest in contemplation, thumb touching his lip. 

He didn't notice the eerie silence that descended on the scene until moments later. When he looked up, everyone was staring at Sherlock, who was staring at him.

"What?"

And without so much as a by-your-leave, Sherlock was turning in the icy mud and tromping up the bank, up the footpath, and clear up onto the bridge at a determined pace. Leaving John standing blinking in surprise and confusion as he watched the great detective hail and duck into a passing cab before disappearing from view without looking back.

"What the fuck was that about?" Lestrade asked.

And John couldn't answer.

//

By the time John made it back to the flat it was growing dark. He'd stayed to bullshit with Lestrade a bit. Who'd told him that he was most likely the one to be taking over the case now that Gregson had made such a public mistake. There'd probably be no saving face after today. The NSY was probably in motion to forcefully retire the man as they spoke. Upon leaving, Lestrade had asked for John to tell him as quickly as he could whatever it was that had Sherlock's 'bollocks in a twist', because it appeared to be important.

John had agreed and had a difficult time waving down his own taxi.

The lights in the flat were off when he stepped in. Only a small sliver of yellow glowed from beneath Sherlock's door. But when John knocked there was no answer.

Trying to settle his unease, John made tea.

When the kettle clicked off, he pulled out a mug for Sherlock and made it to his liking. He knocked on the door again, not even sure if he was really in there as there was absolutely no sound. The man could've not even come back here and just left is bedside lamp on for all John knew.

"Sherlock? I made you some tea if you want it." He paused, hoping. His hair hissed against the wood as he leaned in close to press his ear upon it. But he couldn't make out anything distinct. "I'll leave it out here for you by the door." He placed it in front of the jamb to keep it from being spilled should his flatmate deign to emerge.

But he never did.

//

John came awake with a sharp inhale. His neck protesting as he went to right it. He had fallen asleep in his chair with his medical journal spread open against his chest, his head cradled on his shoulder.

The filmy, earl gray warmth of dawn was creeping into the windows of Baker Street now. Telling John that he had slept soundly throughout the entire night. A rare occurrence anymore.

He scrubbed his face with his palm, feeling a day's worth of stubble getting the lead on him. "Sherlock?" He called and received no answer. He twisted round in his chair, simultaneously stretching out his neck, and saw that the tea he'd left for Sherlock still sat undrunk on the floor. He turned back and saw something he hadn't noticed before.

Placed beside him was his RAMC mug filled with tea. It sent up wispy licks of steam as he gazed at it thoughtfully.

It wasn't /unheard/ of for Sherlock to make tea for him. On the couple of occasions that he had actually done it, it had waned at being not steeped nearly enough to rise above the taste of hot water, or waxed on clearly having been left abandoned with a tea bag disintegrating to bits inside it and only remembered to be given over sometime later.

So it certainly wasn't an impossibility. But it was a bit strange that he would be making it for John now...

Perhaps this was his way of communicating about the way he had acted. John knew he would never go so far as to apologize outright, but maybe he was simply reciprocating for John's tea from last night? Regardless of its intent, the fact of the matter was that a perfectly good cup of tea was sitting within easy reach and John's British integrity wouldn't let that go to waste. 

John took up the mug and held it beneath his nose. It smelled homey and earthy, with a tinge of something sugary. English Breakfast, he guessed, but when he went to drink it, he pulled back with a sneer at the first mouthful.

Cor, it was sweet. Sickeningly so.

Never being a fan of sugar in his tea, he pursed his lips and calculated his options. If he poured it out in the sink, Sherlock would know. Even if he aimed specifically for the drain holes, somehow that only made it seem like he'd find out for sure, as he probably had it rigged or something. If he poured it down the drain then proceeded to wash the dishes over the top of it, Sherlock would know, because the sink wasn't /nearly/ full enough to spur an impromptu dish-washing session from either of them and even John knew that. And suppose Sherlock was still in the flat? (It was still piping hot, so there was a very good chance.) He would hear it, he would know what was happening, he might confront John about it and then John would feel like a complete arse.

Seeing no other option available to him, John set his jaw and dutifully downed the tea. One grimaced mouthful at a time.

//

Later that morning, still accosted by silence, John tried again at Sherlock's door. He was certain at one point that he'd heard the detective's mobile hastily being silenced mid-ring, which had only made John's confusion click up into bewildered frustration. 

He'd been trying half-heartedly to tidy up the flat a bit, but he kept becoming distracted by the barrier between them.

Letting at least an hour pass, John tried the door again, but still nothing became of his knocking. "Sherlock? I know you're in there. At least, I think you are. Look, I um-- thanks for the tea, by the way. It was--I don't take sugar. But it's alright. It was good anyway." He lied and traced a finger over the grain in the wood, trying to imagine what Sherlock was doing on the other side. "After you left yesterday, Lestrade asked me to tell him if you knew anything more about how we could get this guy and um--it's kind of...well, you're acting a bit... look if it's something I can help you with, I want to help."

Silence.

"I get that you don't want to talk right now...but, will you just make a noise or something? Just so I know I'm not out here talking to myself?"

Silence.

"Sherlock? Please?"

Bloody /deafening/ silence.

"John?" Mrs. Hudson's harried voice came stabbing in through the kitchen, sounding close, as if she were only standing on the other side of the French doors before something had stopped her. "John! Sherlock? Oh! Are you boys decent?"

John hissed a laugh through his nose, shaking his head in disbelief. He called over his shoulder. "Yes, Mrs. Hudson. Be there in a minute." Then he put his forehead against the door, trying to keep the frustration from his voice. "I suppose you can always just tell Lestrade himself, whatever it is you know. You don't need me, clearly, so I'll give you some space. Much as you need." He couldn't help the lance of worry that pierced through his gut and added, "if it was something that I did that made you feel like this, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to...whatever it was..." but he was clearly speaking to an empty room.

He leant back off the door, righting himself. "So ehm, yeah, I'll be downstairs if you need me."

When John appeared in the sitting room, Mrs. Hudson immediately ceased wringing her papery hands and reached for his arm with a stricken face, taking no qualms in pulling him bodily towards the stairs. "Oh John! Thank goodness! The most DREADFUL creature went scurrying right across my baseboards! I need you to find it and kill it. I swear it was as big as a hedgehog..."

And John went along without protest, because it felt good to be necessary.

The mouse in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen actually ended up taking up the majority of the day to exterminate. By the end of it, John was stripped down to his vest and mopping at his sweaty brow with a tea towel because he'd had to move the majority of her appliances away from the walls trying to get the damn thing and emptied almost all of her cupboards to find its trail of destruction. 

The mouse eventually ended up squashed beneath the broad head of a broom some five hours later after they'd bated it with some Weetabix and sat quietly like predators. Then John had the unfortunate task of having to put back all of Mrs. Hudson's things on account of her bad hip and being coaxed into rearranging her kitchen since it 'was in such a state anyway'.

But she had thanked him with a good tea time and celebrated his victory with a delicious home-made supper and sent him finally back upstairs with leftovers and an affectionate peck on his cheek in thanks.

It had felt good to forget about what was happening for a while, but the moment he entered the flat, it all came crashing back. As he put away the food, his eyes fell onto another cup of tea sitting on the worktop. What the hell? John peered at the Sherlock's closed bedroom door, as if the man might appear suddenly to explain himself. And when he (predictably) didn't, John sighed, cursed his overwhelming sense of obligation and took a sip.

Blech! Too sweet again.

He pulled a face and glanced down the hall to Sherlock's door once more, a picture entering his head of Sherlock poised on the other side, silently reveling in John's continued misery. Finding himself the victim in yet another conundrum, John dutifully gulped down as much of the saccharine tea as he could manage before dumping the dregs of it into the sink. He couldn't manage it all. It was simply too ghastly.

A tight feeling in his throat had been irritating him since earlier, no doubt exasperated by climbing in and out of Mrs. Hudson's dusty cupboards, and while it was the ONE good mark of the sweetened tea that while he drank it, it seemed to quell the scratchiness, when he stopped, it came back with a two-fold vengeance.

He hasped out a terrible breath and stifled the urge to cough. He swallowed and swallowed against the sudden pain flaring bright in his throat, grimacing and massaging his neck with his fingers. God, he didn't want to admit it to himself, but it had almost felt like this was the first symptom of getting sick. He eyed the petri dishes still piled on the table warily, but saw that they had all been closed and stacked according to some sort of organizational scheme. If he was truly becoming ill, he was going to /throttle/ Sherlock when he saw him again.

He went to the bathroom and rummaged through the medicine cabinet, blinking a bit at its contents. The brand new bottle of Beechams all in one that John was fairly confident he'd just bought was gone, replaced by a brand he'd never used before, something called Comvita Propolis Elixir, which boasted that the propolis contained within was produced by bees and used by them to keep their hives free from infection.

He took the recommended dosage with a shrug and stripped himself naked.

The hot shower he took soothed him and his scratchy throat for the most part. Deliberately not thinking about where he was and what exactly he'd been doing here a few days before. He shoved those thoughts viciously out of his mind, unwilling to parse through old emotions that'd felt like they'd happened to someone else by this point.

He managed to towel off and make it upstairs wrapped in his robe. Even managed to change into a fresh vest and boxers, slip into his cool sheets, lay his head down on his crisp white pillow, and feign sleep for approximately 3.56 seconds before he simply couldn't /take it/.

Sod this.

What did that infernal git think he was doing? Leaving horrible cups of tea randomly for John to drink? Not only just ignoring, but /avoiding/ John completely with no explanation or even HINT as to what it was that he had even done. John was spoiling for a row now. Something to do. /Anything/ to get some answers.

He pounded down the stairs, hard left, and back. Not stopping to knock this time. Hand on the doorknob. "Sherlock. I'm coming in."

The door swung wide and John was ready to ask. To argue. To repent (if need be).

But the room was utterly empty.

He stared at the unmade bed with its pile of Lestrade's shed clothes and felt like an utter tit. How long had he actually been alone?

From the kitchen, a constant green light tattooed out an alert and caught his attention now that it was dark. Green green pause. Green green pause. He went to his phone on the worktop and lit up the screen. New text received at 21:23 PM, which meant he'd just left maybe a fifteen minutes ago, probably while John was in the shower.

'Out. Don't wait up.' SH

//

The second day of silence passed without note. Sherlock remained absent from the flat. Except that when John woke up, a cup of tea was sitting by his bedside. Frowning mutinously, John opened his throat and slugged back the whole abysmal mess in one swallow. If that silent shit was going to keep making shite tea, John wasn't going to be the lesser man and not drink it.

John's mood darkened as the lonely day progressed. The scratchy soreness in his throat only seeming to worsen and his nose had now begun to oscillate between being congestively stuffed and disgustingly runny. There was no doubt about it now; he was becoming ill.

He tried his best to ignore it all by curling up on the couch with some more Comvita and bad telly, but he brooded and sniffed while it nattered away and couldn't focus on any of it. And only the loud wallpapers and the bison head and the bullet-pocked smiley face and Billy the skull and the fly timeline and the gifted rock remained his faithful watchers well into the night.

//

Too early on the third morning (2:34 AM) John woke up feeling terrible. 

Truly terrible. 

Like his head was a ball of slime, oozing out of every orifice. His nose was plugged, his eyes were weepy, and his ears rang constantly. He had two spears of tissue shoved deep into his nostrils to stem the outflow, balls of used toilet paper crumpled about him on the floor like snowballs. He was unable to do anything but breathe raggedly out of his mouth now.

He groaned. Unable to sleep.

Fuck the Thames.  
Fuck Sherlock.  
This shit should be happening to him, not John.

He was propped half upright against his headboard, his comforter clutched tightly around him, but doing nothing to stop the internal chill that froze his veins. He shivered and shook, deciding that he wouldn't be at all surprised if his bones began to rattle in the mayhem.

The threat of sick remained floating in his stomach, always. Perturbable in its timing, rearing up just as he would get comfortable. John had half a mind to stick his finger down his throat and be done with it, and even the very thought of it snapped his shoulders forward and made him gag. But nothing came up.

He spat in the bucket he'd put by his bed and rolled over onto his side. Fiddling with his soggy nose plugs before eventually replacing them and coughing fitfully. God. He felt awful.

Slowly, as if through a fog, something plucked persistently at his focus. It was soft and sharp as it peeled back the layers of sickness and made itself be known. It was coming from downstairs ...something ...nice. John pressed himself up, leaning an ear towards the door. Yes it was. Sherlock was playing his violin.

The notes were slightly violent. Not the sort of atmosphere to put on at two in the morning, but in the belly of 221B there was hardly ever anything going on that was ordinary.

John got shakily to his feet. If he was going to be awake, he was going to have something to be awake for. He was no longer angry, too ill to have any energy to hold any sort of grudge anymore. He made his way slowly down the stairs, sliding against the wall for balance. He had to rest at the landing, breathing heavily from his mouth, before forcing himself onward. 

Sherlock was facing the window as John reached the doorway, his bow stabbing out across his shoulder as the music flowed forth. 

For an instant, John paused. 

John almost felt shameful to breech this sacred place, but was immediately soothed when Sherlock turned minutely to grant him entrance. Revealing the pale edge of his face with his eyes closed in a welcome that John understood. Had he remained with his back to him, John would have slunk pathetically back upstairs. But this was a start.

It had been two whole days since John had got a proper look at him and to know that he was alright made something inside John's core soften in relief. Sherlock could still be mad at John, if that's what the issue was, but at least he was /here/ to do it.

John crossed to his chair and sat, balling up beneath his comforter to listen. Watching as Sherlock's deft hands pulled shrill honey notes from cold metal and summoned for the others to follow. Calling to mind the drifting flight of a feather on the wind. Falling, twirling, climbing, and falling again.

His right hand raked his bow hither and yon, in a dichotomous play of deep bariolage that bent into high, piercing keens.

His left hand crawled like a large, white spider. Jumping into memorized positions, pressing and twisting, and finding every perfectly timed note until it became a dance of long digits with no body attached. The notes yawned back on themselves, changing from a mad scrabble at times to dripping like liquid at others. All the while looking as if they took no effort at all.

Sherlock's eyes were closed in concentration. His black curls bouncing softly in time. John could see his jaw hang slackly as he lost himself to the music. Became its harbinger and maker. 

After a frantic smattering of chords, Sherlock's bow drew a high trill on the upstroke and he pulled the instrument pieces away from each other as if they would melt together if they touched for too long. His nostrils dilated minutely, his shoulders rising and falling with breath. Sweat appearing on his temple.

"I'm sorry." John whispered in congested, open vowels. "I didn't mean to disturb you. I just...it's beautiful."

Sherlock turned fully towards him then, meeting his gaze with shut eyes. He shook his head gently in denial, unable to speak. He was wearing pajama pants and no shirt, broad shoulders draped in his aubergine dressing gown. The small, pink ovals of his nipples stood out starkly against his pale pale skin, markers of contrast to keep him from being merely a ghost. 

He tucked the Stradivarius back under his long chin and John finally caught on. Ah. Of course. He hadn't disturbed anything by his presence. Sherlock had wanted him here. It was simply the first rest that he'd walked into. 

And then the moment became motion once more. Drawing the bow back, Sherlock brought out bright wailings of more bariolage to pierce the quiet of the room. Contrasting them against dark single strings that played as sinuous as chocolate would against the senses. 

John watched every subtle shift of muscle beneath soft flesh and fabric. The tenuous clench of his abdomen, to the corded roots of his neck. The shoulder-width V set of long and slender feet that allowed him to sway into each stroke, lean into the chords and snap back at the right time. All of it for John. 

Then the tempo kicked up into a breaking crest amidst an ocean of noise and he rested again with a sharp, slicing downstroke, one that looked so hard it could have gouged the instrument in two if he had let it. 

Second rest.

"I can't sleep." John divulged when the silence swarmed again and Sherlock nodded without looking. He couldn't sleep either, obviously. The insomniacs of Baker Street were on the prowl.

For the first time since he'd come downstairs, Sherlock opened his eyes, and John was surprised to see ...sadness swimming in their depths.

He moved back to form, keeping their gazes locked. The notes flying suddenly high and tight. They ducked and weaved and fluttered and swam. They were thrown from punishing rakes that split the horsehairs (which only proved to accentuate the bounce and flash of bow) as Sherlock's face grew more and more pinched as the notes grew more and more frantic. Then the tidal music softened, slowed and his features did the same. 

The notes went off into a thousand different directions, all set on a single, solitary path. A heart-wrenching tangle of chords that twined through the centre of this intimate concerto between him and John Watson. 

The violin screamed beside Sherlock, upon him, because of him. The sounds he couldn't make from his mouth were drawn from heated metal. The next best thing. They threatened now, to drip like molten steel onto his chest, down his legs, and flood the room. To smother them both in rich and poignant sound and drown them together forever. 

John's eyes took their liberty to roam the body before him. This tall, lithe thing that stood presenting itself to him with such muted power. And John let out a little gasp as he saw the prominent bulge in the shadow of Sherlock's hips, unwilling to hide. John took the time to admire it while Sherlock was held captive in his task. The long, hard cock standing proud between his legs.

John met his eyes again and Sherlock played harder, looking past his pupils, through them, straight into his brain with so much lust that John felt his own cock stirring and they brought each other erect without a single touch or word. Simply by sight alone.

John shifted lower in his seat, wiping back the comforter to let his own erection bob free in the tent of his boxers. Wanton. Allowing Sherlock to see what he was doing to him. He found himself panting, part from increased blood flow and part asphyxiating congestion. Witnessing the moment Sherlock's eyes caught fire, his mouth falling open to mirror him, but it was the Stradivarius that moaned. 

He clearly wanted to put his hands on John Watson's straw hair and kiss him until he broke through his skin, but his hands had become fused with the violin. They were one creature now. Totally inseparable. And the siren call of the song roared within them both. Keeping him prisoner.

Then the notes were rising, rising, rising...and then just as suddenly in freefall. As if plummeting from the highest towers, the most unreachable peaks, and then climbing back out of the darkness when all could have been lost to ruin. 

John smiled. A soft, delicate thing that Sherlock felt in his heart of hearts that he didn't deserve. COULDN'T EVER deserve. He couldn't begin to accept that this wonderful man had limped into his life so unassumingly and had become so vital. Crossed his blood-brain barrier and become permanent. And that he would do anything to keep him. That he'd DONE EVERYTHING to keep him. 

And that that in itself may very well be the thing that would make him have to let go.

The notes rang out again as if they were a death rattle. Soft but trill. Calming and dancing and slicing and wobbling before sprinting away in jaunty gaiety only to become bruised with darker notes as it reached its climax. And much too soon, as it always did, the end came. Twelve hard minutes of brutal beauty filling the flat only to cease and be swallowed up by the heavy silence. As disappeared as a life written in invisible ink.

They stayed in their places for a moment, hard as sin at the sight of each other, panting with open faces and deep, pleading eyes. Fire and ocean connected. Twisted up together and never coming apart.

John could have sworn he was just breathing. Opening his mouth to inhale and was stunned to find the words that had been crowding so densely in his mind since 'Afghanistan or Iraq?' suddenly trip off his tongue and become airborne as he exhaled.

"I love you."

A look more peculiar than John had ever seen came violently over that long lovely face and with no preamble, warning, or response Sherlock simply stalked forward and held out his hands. He stooped over John's small body with eyes that were raging with starlight and waited for John to release him from his bonds. 

John obliged. 

Sherlock's fingertips came away with raw, red stripes and John set the warmed instrument down on the floor by the hearth. The bow he set atop it like a lily on a grave. John took the long fine-boned fingers and wrapped them in his hands so so gently. Setting them against his flushed cheek to soothe their hellfire.

Sherlock bent down lower now, electricity crackling in his loosened muscles, leaning in for a kiss. Pulling back slightly when John turned his head away. His voice so small and helpless. "Sherlock. I'm ill."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and with his free hand he pinched the leaking sieve that was John's nose, wiping away the mucus in arguably the most intimate act John had ever experienced with this madman. He wiped it off onto his pantleg and tipped his head in again, whispering. "I know."

And then he kissed him. Deeply, roughly, backing off only when John squirmed from lack of oxygen. He left him dazed in his chair, head spinning, and dropped a decimating bombshell as he pulled a small tube of lubricant from his pocket and watched John's eyebrows crumple.

"Now?" John could do nothing but blink in surprise and alarm as something ugly and needy washed over Sherlock's face. Wrecking his beautiful features and /staying/. Something like desperation.

He gasped a little gasp as Sherlock divested himself of his bottoms and gown in a calculated flurry before climbing straight into the chair with him. He'd been pantsless, his cock parallel to his lean belly. He wrenched John's own boxers down by sheer force, nearly ripping them in his haste and John could do nothing but scramble to make room and get his knees tangled in his underwear. Sherlock's feet took purchase between the seat cushion and armrests, essentially pinning John into place.

"Yes. Now. John. I need this now." He assured, as if it wasn't clear enough. His voice was raked over coals. But something was wrong, he was slurring a bit as if he wasn't all there in his faculties yet and with /such pain/ so potent in his face it was confusing.

He was crowding John in again after that, to keep John from seeing him, kissing him desperately and somewhere between the ridiculous smacking of lips and clink of bumped teeth and the smearing of snot, the unmistakable gurgling of slick through a bottleneck was heard.

Too soon. 

John saw stars when Sherlock took his whole hard prick in one slippery hand and gave it a desultory stroke, holding tight to the base to keep it in position. John just barely managed to catch Sherlock's arse cheeks as he moved with the intention of dropping himself straight down onto John's slicked cock. As if to impale himself cold start. "Christ's sake Sherlock! Take it easy!" He managed to choke out.

True to its nature, in the white hot panic of the moment, John's mind went utterly calm. He forced Sherlock's bum back to sit at the top of his thighs, taking him by the scruff of his neck and drawing him down against his shoulder instead, despite Sherlock's desperate whine. He bent the tall man awkwardly in half and held him there. 

He didn't understand the hot rushes of frantic air on his neck, simply swiped blindly at his sweat-soaked curls and tried to soothe the jack rabbit pace of Sherlock's heart. The man in his lap was trembling wildly. He whispered to him soothingly. "Slow down, love. Slow down. Shh. You're going too fast. We don't have to hurry this." How could something that had been so beautiful and intimate mere moments ago turn suddenly into such hysteria in a matter of seconds? "It's alright. I have you. Slow down. Tell me what's wrong."

"Please John...please! I need-- give me this. Just this." Sherlock's broken voice was pitching between desperation and demand, his hands kneading the chair back in a way that actually made the old fabric give a terrible rending noise, which correlated simultaneously with the feeling in John's heart at the pleading in his voice.

"Give you what Sherlock? What do you need?" 

He pulled Sherlock's hands away from the ratty old chair and clasped them tightly in his own, trying to find those virdigris eyes by using his chin as a lever, but Sherlock remained stubbornly buried over his shoulder, unwilling to look. "You. Just give me you." Sherlock rasped. "Please. I--I won't last. It won't last. Please. Please? I beg of you. You said you would-- give me you."

Begging. Sherlock Holmes was /begging/ him.

"Anything." He found himself muttering in earnest, not knowing what else to do. "Anything. Any--anything you need. Sherlock just...Sherlock. Look at me. Please?" The adrenaline was clearing the flu from his sinuses, giving everything happening a strange swimmy quality as Sherlock finally moved back to allow him to see his pale face. But the detective kept his eyes hidden.

John could have sworn that his lashes were clumped with moisture, but Sherlock was looking down between them now, scooting closer, shaking his head, bringing a surprised yelp out of John as Sherlock took them both in hand and began a steady stroking of their cocks pressed together. "If I look at you I'll start to think and if I think, it will all be lost. Please John. Now. I need this now."

"Alright. Alright, but go slowly. I don't want you to tear." He kissed at anything he could reach, which was the damp crown of Sherlock's head, taking some of the excess slick from his cock and helped to guide Sherlock back into previous position before stalling him again. He hoped the strain of having to keep himself elevated might leech some of that nervous energy radiating from Sherlock's body, let him focus. "That's it. Almost there."

As he spoke, John reached underneath and felt for the rugose pinch of his hole to prep him, feeling the taller man adjust his precarious position without the hand there to pull him forward anymore. "Hang onto me love. I have you."

What he was expecting was a tight furl of muscle that he would have to gradually coax open. What he found instead stole his breath away. His fingers touched the blunt flare of something circular and unapologetically synthetic.

"Jesus! Are you wearing a plug?" He paled at the tenacity with which Sherlock had wanted to immolate himself just moments before and how they'd just barely skirted disaster. "Did you forget?"

The sound Sherlock made was a thick cracking groan of realization, as if he HAD forgotten. His arms meaning to release, but unable, sure that he would be left unbalanced and go toppling from the chair should he let go, he pushed his arse out to make room. "Take it out. Please John take it out. Ah!" Sherlock spoke through gritted teeth, fingers kneading harshly into John's shoulders, anchoring his awkward crouch.

John had no choice but to acquiesce.

He couldn't help the burst of filthy lust that washed over him when he heard the wet /flup!/ of the anal plug leaving Sherlock's orifice. Felt his guts' resistance in letting it go. John just barely registered the noise as it thumped to the floor discarded when he became suddenly too preoccupied with pressing his fingers up against Sherlock's yawning entrance, moaning when he was able to finger the loose muscles of Sherlock's external and internal sphincters immediately. So plied were they, so stretched, that he was able to slip both fingertips up and in side by side (and could have possibly included a third) feeling the peculiar viscosity of old lube coating the anoderm. He felt Sherlock's muscles flutter ineffectually to try and close the gaping hole. Close around his fingers. He would have sold his soul for a mirror right then. He'd always had a thing for dilating muscles. A relieved whimper from Sherlock brought John's lizard brain to heel. "Wha--? How long? How long have you been wearing that?"

"Eight hours."

Sweet molten arousal burst anew through John's loins. His mouth finding purchase in the swirling depths of Sherlock's hair once again. He scraped his teeth against Sherlock's scalp. Sherlock had been planning this almost all day. "How else? Did you do anything else? Tell me."

Sherlock's breath hissed in and out through his nostrils, curls dancing as he fought to find his voice again as John swept his finger pads against his inner walls with renewed fervour. Sherlock's legs were shivering with strain, his mouth cracking open and stretching a single silver thread of saliva between two impossible lips. He gnashed his teeth together as John began finally to slowly lower him.

John wanted to keep him occupied, keep his mind straining between two opposite directions and leave his senses floating untethered somewhere in the middle. Sherlock answered just as John's meatus touched his hispid center. 

"Laxatives. An enema. PhosphodiaaaAAAAH! -sterase number 5 inhibitor." Came the strained answers. "In that order."

Oh sweet Mother of Christ he was thorough! "Viagra? Sherlock? You took Viagra for this?"

"In preparation. I can't...I don't...please John!! I /had/ to." He let Sherlock down at a glacial pace, the end of the sentence happening the same instant John's corona efficiently stoppered Sherlock's plied hole. Sherlock whined again.

"Sshh. Easy. Easy. Almost there. Bear down. Just bear down against it." 

The firm slide of his prick into Sherlock's body was exquisite for John. Barely registering that it caused Sherlock's teeth to chatter at the overwhelming intensity of it and all his limbs to erupt in a new crash of shivers. But he eased him through the worst of it as best he could. "What do you need? Anything you want. Just tell me what's wrong." Once Sherlock was pierced deeply enough, despite how hot he felt, John bundled his blanket back up like a cocoon around them both.

He wanted Sherlock to feel safe and warm and calm. All the things he was clearly not right now. He let him sink down completely until the sharp fans of his ischium were stabbing into John's firm hips. Sherlock's knees practically bent up against his ears. "I'm inside you now. I'm in love. It's over. Just relax. Give it a minute."

John took him by the face after that, allowing the first tyrannical intrusion into Sherlock's body to ebb into something much less shocking for the both of them. Setting their breathing pace. The action left Sherlock effectively pinioned, unable to run and hide now. "Shh.Sshh. Easy. Sherlock. You need to tell me what's going on."

Instead of answering, Sherlock tried to move, to raise his hips, but John clapped hands on his shoulders and stopped him dead. He would not allow this to simply be ignored. Something horrible ate at him. He pushed their foreheads together, sweat-slicked brow against sweat-slicked brow and he had to know. "Why are you doing this Sherlock. What happened? What's going on?" 

"Please John." Sherlock's voice was broken and in the wreckage he slipped his eyes effectively.

"Tell me, love. I need to know. What is happening?"

"I can't...I won't...I will not," Sherlock shook wet curls in protest, but his mouth betrayed him. "You won't love me after this, John." Sherlock whispered as if to himself. As if about to cry. "You will not."

Alarmed, John took him firmly by the chin, desperately wishing that he would look at him. "How? How could I not love you?"

But Sherlock lifted his arse and dropped it while John's hands were distracted, making John bless and curse the stars simultaneously as they pinwheeled on the back of his eyelids. His head rolled back and his vision exploded before him.

Sherlock set up a punishing rhythm. A hard, almost terrible pace punctuated by animalistic grunts. He used enough momentum to pick the chair up from the floor and thump it loudly back into the ground a couple of times and John was too far gone in the moment to worry about Mrs. Hudson downstairs. His particular worries were focused down much more acutely. "Sherlock. Slow down." He begged.

But Sherlock did not. His fucking only became more desperate, his head shaking in denial and he continued to pound himself down onto John's hard prick. Like a punishment. Driving his lithe body up and down, up and down like some sort of manic organic mechanacian. Frantic and desperate, to the point where it was almost unpleasant. And from the awful grimace painting his face and the terrible sounds hiding in his closed mouth, John had had enough.

Captain Watson boiled to the surface, witnessing a situation getting out of hand and deciding to take control. He risked his arms beneath Sherlock's arse once again, taking a couple slams that felt like they would tear his limbs from his shoulders before he got the mad man to stop.

Sherlock keened, high and hard, as John stalled him in a hovering position yet again, gasping and panting. "Did you take something else? I need to know. Anything besides the Viagra?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head vehemently and John believed him. /Would/ believe him always. Sherlock said himself that the only time that he'd ever enjoyed sex was when he was either inebriated or emotionally compromised. This was clearly only the latter. "Okay. That's good. You're hurting. I can see that." As he spoke, he'd begun to press up into Sherlock's trembling body, more slowly, only pushing the very tip of his cock in and stirring it around with a filthy little circle of his hips.

Sherlock juttered at this new feeling, his eyes threatening to roll into the back of his head as the angry flesh of his outermost insides were suddenly touched with kindness. John was speaking to him again.

"You want this now...I see that too. But you're hurting and I don't like that. I will take away your pain if I can, but we do this my way. Alright? /My/ way. I want to make you feel good. You deserve to feel good." He pierced him shallowly once more, the slide of his corona up inside that silken tunnel so viciously sweet it nearly lost him right then and there, but he wouldn't let it. "Because...Sherlock look at me. Please love, look."

He stopped dead again, arms screaming, sweat beading his forehead with strain and heat and sickness and FOCUS. Needing Sherlock to see. To hear him.

He only spoke when the man finally deigned to lock desperate eyes with him once more.

"There is NO universe in which I will not love you."

The reaction was immediate. Sherlock bore down hard, coming fully flush with John's lap and burying his face deep in John's neck. He hid what could only be described as a gutteral sob, choking on a lungful of air and John howled inwardly at the intensity of the tightslickwetHEAT that swallowed him up.

They managed a few desperate grinds before John could stand no more of the utter claustrophobia of his position and, uncoupling them under intense protest, ushered them to the floor. He used the blanket as bedding as he pressed Sherlock's knees back into his shoulders and pinned him as soundly as a /Acherontia styx/ would be pinned to a collector's spreading board, sliding back inside.

And just like that, he made slow, sweet, delicate love to the man he loved on the sitting room floor. 

He elicited sounds in octaves that John wasn't even aware Sherlock could make. He pressed deeper when Sherlock's body rocked with want. Shushed and reassured when his hand on Sherlock's flushed cock made the man whimper in protest and took it away when he got too close. 

He kissed him until the man begged for breath and breathed for him when he tried to stop. John didn't stop to investigate the tears that occasionally ran down the man's temples. Only worked his hips more softly and made it his life's work to hit every sweet and glorious spot inside to get that mountain of man to crumble.

The first time Sherlock came, it was with a gutteral cry like that of pain and an impressive arc of emissions across his own chest. His body rocking with a full-body spasm so violent he nearly broke John's nose in his palsy.

The second time was hardly more than a crackling wail and the small dribble of semen that came out was gathered up in John's fingers and fed into his mouth. And Sherlock, in sheer surprise, had chased the taste of his own spunk inside the confines of John's mouth.

And the third, god help him, was completely dry and looked nigh unbearable. John had had to tuck Sherlock's face into the crook of his neck to keep that grimace from stopping his aching hips completely.

But Sherlock was nearly diaphanous now. See-through and threaded out on the blanket beneath John with only the most gossamer of existence to keep him tethered to earth. Tethered to John, and John alone.

Still rocking, body screaming in protest, Sherlock eventually resurfaced. His wet face swept along the side of John's, both of them drenched in everything. He tried to shut his eyes once more, but it seemed that all his muscles had gone loose. "In me." He whispered, so soft next to John's ear it was nearly lost in the rustle of bedding. "Come inside me."

And John took his face and kissed his nose and made him promise that which he did not want to. "If you want this Sherlock, then let me see you. You have to be /here/ to have it."

And the look he got when those lime green eyes finally met his during that slow press of scooping hips and gentle caresses that ached in their tenderness was that of Sherlock Holmes giving off some sort of fantastic radiation, and John Watson being the only ordinary man able to absorb it. 

And just like that, John came. Pressing deep and letting go.

//

"This is what I get then? Three days of silence and then you throwing yourself at me like this?" John spoke a long time later. After their heartbeats had dimmed. After their blood had cooled. After Sherlock had stopped trembling. The spunk painting their bellies and fingers and lips had dried into a thin, salty crust. The blanket swaddled them together. 

Sherlock had his head buried in the side of John's neck, hot breaths ghosting out across his sternum. His long, lithe fingers rubbed themselves compulsively through the dips between his ribs. Sherlock remained obstinately silent. Not having moved from the confines of John's arms for even a moment. 

Not sure a ribbing was the best choice in prompting dialogue, John trundled on. "I'm not saying I mind, but I'd just...it's a bit...I WANT to help you, Sherlock. However I can. If I can. But you have to tell me. Just talk to me. What's going on?"

As an answer, John's mobile trilled from the kitchen. Though neither man moved.

It trilled again.

Then again.

Each ring piggybacking upon the other.

Four times and finally Sherlock untangled himself from John's arms and rose on wobbly legs without a word. John watched as he took a moment to keep his feet, long enough for John to track a glossy trail of his own semen pearl down the pale stretch of Sherlock's inner thigh to the dip behind his knee. Long enough to begin to feel the first edges of regret curl inside him at what had just happened between them. The man claimed to be asexual...and yet...

When he looked up, Sherlock was looking straight at him over his shoulder. His hair a wild dark tangled corona about his head. His lips and chin scraped raw from John's stubble. His sunken eyes so sad it made something deep in John's belly go cold. The sex felt suddenly like an apology.

The phone rang again. 

Instead of going to it, as John suspected he would, Sherlock limped back through the kitchen and with one hand sliding along the wall to brace himself, disappeared into his bedroom.

"I'll just get that then, shall I?" John tried and groaned as he got up on screaming legs. He took up Sherlock's discarded robe and pulled the ribbon tight before answering. Feeling the necessity to be decent when conversing with another human being, even over the phone.

"OI! About bloody time you answered your fucking phone! Thank god. Are you alright? Where are you?!" Lestrade was shouting through his mobile as soon as he picked it up. His words frantic.

"Cor, Greg, I'm fine. I'm fine." Worry simmered suddenly in his veins. "What's going on? What's the matter?"

The story that followed nearly dropped John to his knees: A body had been recently found that had been torn indescrimanently apart in an alley way on Gloucester, the road where they'd found the first body. An identification card reading John H. Watson had been found in the corpse's back left pocket. John's real ID card, as it turned out, which had been nicked from his bedside drawer. The man'd been of a similar height. A similar build to John. He was wearing what was positively identified as being the same outfit John'd worn to the crime scene two days prior. So, by all accounts, the body found mutilated would have /been/ John Watson, had he not currently been taking the phone call.

"I could've sworn the bugger was /you/ mate!" Lestrade wheezed as the panic left him. "He was your bloody twin."

Sherlock was sitting stoically upon the edge of his bed when John came storming in absolutely fuming. He had dressed himself fully in a suit jacket and trousers, shoes and socks, and had his hands clasped between his knees. His head was bowed down to take the brunt of John's fury. And it came upon him as swiftly as a tsunami.

"What in the ever loving fuck Sherlock?!" John bellowed.

The beat of silence took up every available molecule between them.

"I had to be certain," came Sherlock's small, baritone voice.

"CERTAIN?! Certain about what? That you could take my clothes...that you could take my ID card and give them to another man who looked just enough like me to get him bloody well /killed/ for sport? So you could prove you're clever! Lestrade just told me that the CCTV footage shows a tall man in a dark coat -- positively identified as YOU, walking with another man down Gloucester, before you LEAVE HIM ALONE to be jumped and bloody fucking /eviscerated/ in the street..."

Sherlock did not move.

"How long have you known, hm? How long did you keep it a secret that this...thisthisthis 'pusher' is really after ME, huh! Two DAYS you've known that the killer was spelling out MY NAME with these victims' last names and you didn't think you could fucking TELL ME?! That I wouldn't maybe like to KNOW a goddamn thing like that! 

"And then on top of all that you use me, you USE me for sex, which you don't even like, because you are so FUCKING SELFISH that you need to make yourself feel better because you went out, you took a man out to play my doppleganger and you end up getting him murdered. You become duplicitous in his death and then you come back to me, the real me, to what? Absolve yourself? To make yourself feel better about what you've done? Oh you selfish SELFISH bastard."

He felt a wave of nausea overtake him, bending him low enough for him to have to put a steadying hand out on the doorjamb and the other on his knee. Trying not to puke.

"Selfish?" And Sherlock only grumbled with laughter. A sneer, as sharp and dark as obsidian peeling through his features as his laugh grew in size, horrible and joyless. "Oh John. Is that the best insult you can manage? If you think you are the first to call me this than you are utterly UTTERLY mistaken. And if you truly think this to be the worst of my traits then you are even more of a fool than I took you to be. Yes I am selfish. Selfish among other so many more terrible things."

He was building momentum now, a train bereft of its tracks. "I demand myself to deny all human inhibitions and yet I cannot deny this however hard I may try. And oh believe me how I have tried. But I NEED you with me John Watson, for all your shortcomings. As much as I need blood and air. As much as I require the /Work/. And for your part you would follow me into the seventh circle of hell because you are a blind and stupid idiot. And I CANNOT allow that. Do you see?" His colour in his eyes turned neon, lighting up his face like the Ark of the Covenant opening.

Without him noticing, Sherlock had stood from the bed and crowded John back until they were out into the sitting room, walking him all the way through the kitchen until the backs of his knees hit the seat of Sherlock's chair and made him sit with a whump. 

"And I will not be held responsible for anyone else to be the death of you. Do you understand? If the worst thing I am at the end of all this is selfish, then I take that title willingly. Your death would END me. There is /nothing/ more important in this world than you are to me and I would rather watch London burn to the ground around my feet than allow one second to pass without you in existence."

His arse hit the leather just as Sherlock finished his fulmination. John sat nailed in place like a crucifixion with Sherlock's eyes and totally unable to completely comprehend the breadth of what he'd just heard.

Sherlock loved him, in his own mad way. And just as Mycroft had warned him, it was all consuming.

Almost as if he noticed what it was that he had revealed, Sherlock's shoulders softened and his face sobered immediately. His body becoming physically smaller as he took a step away, giving John space to stop tilting back over the chair.

"Hate me if you must." Sherlock said resignedly, going to the sitting room table and pulling from a messy pile a single sheet of paper. He handed it to John before going to the window and placing his hands behind his back, staring out at Baker Steet as if he were a hanged man looking out at the world for the last time from his gallows, feeling the weight of the rope around his neck. "But know that it will never alter my regard for you."

A photocopy of a hospital intake report of someone named Miles [REDACTED] sneered up at John with its formal black type. Miles? Miles...where had?...oh right.

"The man you were speaking to at the Jolly Bulldog was attacked later that same night by an unknown assailant. Mycroft took the liberty of calling this to my attention, otherwise I would not have known. Again, my selfishness comes into play." He laughed self-depricatingly.

The intake read out like a car wreck. Each fact only amassing to a worse and worse calamity until all the hateful parts made up a nightmare whole.

His jaw had been broken, said the report. His eye socket fractured. His C3, C4, and C5 vertebrae had all been broken and had to be fused together. He had suffered a collapsed lung and a broken ankle. Multiple lacerations to his hands. Defensive wounds to his palms. Abrasions. Cuts. Contusions

Sherlock went stoically on. "Given the brutality of this man's injuries I believe we both know who it was that did it. The killer was there that night, stalking you. And as jealous as I was of your casual conversation with the man at the bar, the Pusher apparently took it a step farther."

Suddenly, Miles' stunning smile slashed through John's memory and to know that that particular beauty might not be seen again for a very long time seemed to suck the air from the room. "Oh Jesus. Jesus!" Barring countless surgeries and months to years of physical therapy, this man would probably be crippled for life. John felt instantly nauseous. He'd made this happen. This man's life had been ruined because of John.

Sherlock's voice broke through the cacophony in his head, as it was uncharacteristically demure. "It is a meager token in light of the evidence, but I have arranged for your friend to receive, when he is able, the finest physical therapist Britain has to offer until he fully recovers. Free of charge.

"And when I am able to figure out our next course of action and resolve the matter of this murderer once and for all, you are free to leave John. Or if you so wish it, I will go and you may keep the flat. It will be your decision.

"But in the meantime, I ask you that you please refrain from silhouetting yourself in any of the windows and I would recommend carrying your Browning on you at all times." Sherlock had moved over to the door and was shrugging on his Belstaff solemnly, as if leaving.

"And where are you going?" John asked, his voice broken glass in his throat.

"To get more milk."

John wanted to turn. To scoff. To sneer in Sherlock's face at the sheer lunacy of what he'd just said. But he did none of these. Instead, he wiped his sleeve beneath his burning nose, staring fixedly at the middle distance between his bare feet. "Oh, things must be very bad indeed making promises like that."

"John. Believe me." Sherlock's hand tightened on the doorknob, looking over his shoulder at John who did not turn, before letting his gaze slide to the floor. "We cannot survive this without tea." 

And with that, he shut the door behind him.

//

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh noes! poor Miles. I borrowed him for the sheer purpose of beating the shit out of him. shameshame. but he's a necessary plot point so I don't feel too bad.
> 
> the location of the headless body was originally suppose to have been Littlebrook Pier. because the pictures of it I found online looked PERFECT as a location. however, later I realized that when I went to find it on a map (which I should have done in the first place) it was way the hell outside of London and not in a good spot for my story so we're just gonna pretend that Battersea Bridge has the same kind of access to the river. mkay? next time i'll research better.
> 
> let's see. what else?
> 
> It's important that you paid attention to the specific flu medicine that Sherlock switched out for a pop quiz i'm going to give you in the coming final chapter. you will be graded on your memory so remember it and i'll tell you why later. And I ran across the replacement merely by happy accident. and yes Comvita is really real and really made by bees! so it would definitely have Sherlock's seal of approval.
> 
> I think that's it. as always, thanks for sticking with me!!! we're almost at the end! can you believe it?


	11. CHAPTER ELEVEN - The Adventures of the Resurrectionist Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a plan. but nobody said it was a good one...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did I say I would update before the special? because I apparently meant /season 4/. gawd! you're following a jerk is what's happening. i'm SO sorry... it's not done. this chapter hated my guts and refused to be written so you have to face more waiting and chapters. but you deserve to have SOMETHING...so please take it before it kills me any more...
> 
> p.s. the song John dreams to is [Beniamino Gigli - Una Furtiva Lagrima](https://m.youtube.com/?#/watch?v=ke810vds_Vc) translated it means 'the elixir of love'. I feel this song in my bones when I listen to it. hopefully you will too.

John and Sherlock spent the next two days in silence, orbiting each other at their most aphelion, only coming close when it was absolutely necessary. And even though Sherlock had said he may not speak for days on end back when they'd first met; John hadn't ever considered that he'd be doing the same. 

This time though, the silence that permeated the flat was different from the silence before. It was as if the world had been tilted the wrong way. Made heavy now with anger instead of worry. Repudiation instead of doubt.

Throughout his self-induced house arrest, John's illness persisted, never seeming to lessen or grow worse, only remaining stagnant enough to add a green tinge to each day. Sherlock, despite his own vow of silence, tended to John's needs with all due efficiency. But even John could tell that something was off with him. It seemed that everything was lacking its usual theatrics and commentary. He was much more subdued in his movements.

It was as if John's all-consuming anger had broken him somehow.

When he wasn't brooding in his chair, John spent some of his time brooding in his bed with the loo roll as his only companion and the rest of time poised over the toilet in case the constant threat of swirling nausea actually resulted in vomiting. But it never did.

In the early afternoon of the second day, the post came, effectively twisting the mood that had been filling 221B into a more defined focus. Providing the catalyst they needed to end this pointless circling.

Sherlock topped the stairs with soft steps and after a brief moment of hesitation, held out an envelope over John's shoulder for him to take between two long fingers. But John only gave it a brief glance before turning back to the spot on the wall he'd been staring at with a grimace. He didn't need to look at it too closely, after all. 

It had really only been a matter of time before the Pusher would call again.

This letter was almost identical to the one that had come before. It was on black paper, written in the same white cursive, but addressed to John this time:

'Dear Mr. Watson,  
You are cordially invited to join us.  
Warm regards.'

It felt like a kick while he was down.

It was so alike in everything but name that the letter could have been a carbon copy of the first, had that one not currently been buried under aluminum powder on the kitchen table. But of course the dusting had turned up no finger prints and they both knew without trying that this one would result in the same.

"I have to go out again." Sherlock said almost hesitantly. The first words spoken in two whole days and it was to tell John that he was leaving again.

John's hand tightened around the dirty tissues balled in his fist. 

When John still made no further move to take it or reply, Sherlock slid the envelope beneath a saucer full of biscuits that John hadn't bothered eating and continued, "there's something important I need to research."

"Yeah. 'course." John finally grumbled before descending into a coughing fit. He wiped his sore nose with a wad of rough tissue and closed his weepy eyes against the sting of raw skin. God he must look pathetic. Curled in his chair, trying to be angry while illness ravaged him. An illness that had been a little too effective in wicking away his fury more quickly then he was willing to let go of it. But Sherlock's reluctance to engage with John in any form but on eggshells grated on him intensely and brought it to flare again. 

Sherlock didn't /do/ this and it made John's hackles rise. 

He tucked the blanket he'd stolen from the back of the couch more tightly around his shoulders and burrowed down like an angry turtle. "Go on then."

He heard Sherlock's tread go back to the door, the sussurus of his coat sliding on and the front door open, before there was a pause at the threshold. Using that same old trick. "John. . ."

"Don't even bother." John growled immediately, not willing to listen to whatever empty platitude he was about to say. He didn't need protecting or reminding of just exactly what threat lay outside 221B and despite all of Sherlock's past comments to the contrary, he wasn't an idiot. "I, unlike /some/ people, have a little thing called self-restraint and won't go haring off at a moment's fucking notice to get myself OR somebody else killed just because some stupid letter comes to our door. Yeah? 

"And besides that, I'm a /soldier/, and a bloody GOOD one! I DO know how to defend myself. I'm fine. Go. " The thrashing felt good, cathartic even, until the blade of the words seemed to cut John just as deeply as he wanted them to cut Sherlock. He felt flayed.

There was a slight groan of the floorboards as Sherlock shifted on his feet and a metallic sound when his hand tightened on the doorknob. But there was no rebuttal. No uppity come back. Just a deep inhale and long exhale and another loaded silence to hang up on the air between them. It seemed that for once in his life, Sherlock Holmes had nothing to say in return. And that was perhaps more devastating.

As the door closed and the footsteps receded, John let his austerity slip just enough to allow himself to close his eyes, press his face into his fingers, and exhale.

The next thing John knew, he was being awoken by the sudden stabbing of daylight to his face and the skittering of rings on a curtain rod. He grimaced against the light and made to move, only to moan at the aches that sang out in his tight body.

There was a frightened cry and Mrs. Hudson grasped at her breast in alarm. Her other marigold-gloved fist clutching at the curtain she'd just pulled back, before she realized what had spooked her. "Oh John!" She chided and her sweet face melted into a grin as she laughed at herself. "You startled me! I thought you were a pile of laundry! I just came up here to do a bit of the washing up. I didn't think anyone was still here."

She made to swat him playfully on the arm, but took one look at his red raw nose and extra baggy eyes and reconsidered. "Oh love. You look terrible. Have you been here all night?"

Feeling as awful as he did, John decided that he must have done. Sometime in the night, Sherlock's duvet had been brought from his bed and draped over John's legs, but apparently whatever Sherlock had had to 'research' last afternoon hadn't proved fruitful enough to wake John up to tell him about it.

"Is Sherlock in?" He asked, his voice rough. He went to rub the kink from his stiff neck and a collection of used tissues came cascading out of the folds of the blanket. Mrs. Hudson tutted at him mildly as she set to work gathering them out of his lap for her cleaning bucket.

"Oh, I don't think so. At least, I haven't heard him. But to be honest, I haven't heard a peep from either of you for the past two days. I thought you'd gone out on one of your cases. But it looks like staying in was the best thing for you. Now you sit right there and I'll bring you a nice cup of chamomile. What do you say?"

Though his sense of taste had surely fled him by now, John relished the idea of a nice cuppa that wouldn't threaten diabetes for once. "That would be very nice. Thank you."

She gave a sympathetic pout at the state of him before heading towards the kitchen for the kettle, speaking to him through the open French doors. "I'm going to have a word with that boy when he gets back. He should be here taking care of you not beetling off into the night to-- wait," she reconsidered, "maybe he'll just want to experiment on you in this state, knowing how curious he is. Perhaps it is better that he's stepped out."

John couldn't stop his lip from curling at the thought and then really /considered/ just what had been going on for the past two days if one factored out the silence. 

That despite the seemingly endless cups of cloying tea Sherlock brought him, they were always being paired with a packet of bland digestives that were sure not to upset John's delicate stomach. And even though Sherlock mostly kept his distance, allowing John's anger to do what it would, there was always a measured dose of Comvita Propolis Elixir waiting for him when it was time for his next top up and a new loo roll whenever he needed it.

The truth was that Sherlock reading him, as he always did, and reacting accordingly. Being a rather damn good nurse maid in the process. "It's actually not been that bad." He finally finished.

"Oh? Well that's a lovely thing to hear." Mrs. Hudson said, coming back into the room with a fine china cup of swirling chamomile, but when she went to slide the cup onto the side table, she paused. "Oh my! That's a pretty bit of writing, isn't it?" She swapped the tea for the black letter and held it very close to her face to read. "A bit shaky with the penmanship, but besides that very nice. It's been a long time since I've received a formal letter to something. I believe the last one I got was from my best friend Margaret. It was for her wedding. Can you believe it? Two years of not speaking to me after she walks out early on MY wedding and poof! out of the blue she sends me an invitation...oh, but listen to me. You really are too sweet to me John. You must learn to tell an only lady to hush every now and again." She slid the letter back into place and patted his fist where it was curled beneath the blanket. "Now you get back to having that rest and I'll just try to clean a bit of this place up as quietly as I can, alright? I promise to save the hoovering for another day. Is there anything else I can get you?"

After he shook his head and settled back, she went about cleaning up as best she could. Moving pillows from the floor to the sofa, scrubbing footprints from the coffee table. Eventually, she moved on to tackle the table that served as their desk and came across the book Miles had given him and the rock that Sherlock had. "Did you ever find out what this was all about?" She asked, picking up the rock and deciding that John might like it better with him, setting it down next to his tea.

"No." He said thickly, coughing into his tissue when his throat tickled before taking it in hand. He held it up, looking it over though it appeared to have remained unchanged. "No, he never said. Only that I would be able to figure it out eventually."

"Oh well. I'm sure you will. I'm still certain it represents what you mean to him. You're his /rock/." She nodded as though her opinion on this was infallible. "You've done my Sherlock a lot of good, John Hamish Watson. He might never say it, but he loves you very much. I can tell."

John considered this. Considered all the things that had happened between them until now. The questions asked. The secrets and moments shared. The parts of John's past that hadn't seen daylight for years suddenly lighting up fluorescent under Sherlock's luminous stare?

But what about the lies? The deciets? The unworded apologies that had left John naked on the floor and regretting what they had just done together? Only to regret it more when he learned WHY it was that it had even been allowed to happen at all.

Is this what love is to a madman like Sherlock Holmes? 

"Listen to me. Here I am, chatting away again! How about I just put some music on, hm? That'll help stop me from trying to fill the silence." Without waiting for an answer, Mrs. Hudson shuffled over to the record player and turned it on, allowing Sherlock's Italian/German opera record 'Donizetti L'elisir D'amore' (that had for all this time been sitting forgotten under the needle) pick up where it had left off.

Falling deeper into his thoughts, John let the music wash over him while Mrs. Hudson obligingly moved off to the back rooms. He let his thoughts ebb and flow in the blossom of the music. Pretending he could understand what the man and the woman were singing about. Pretending they were answering his questions in a language he couldn't understand while he fell into the clutches of his exhaustion.

And then, just as his brain was drifting, tripping on the edges of sleep, an aria being sung by the man alone began that was so sweet and pure and forlorn that it grabbed John by the solar plexus and squeeeeezed. 

It rose like a warm summer wind, pulling at his soul in the same way the Adhans, the calls to prayer he'd heard being sung in Afghanistan had all that time ago. And suddenly his dreams were being painted by memories long forgotten. By shifting sands and trickling sweat and a sun that had burned so hard it had been a white hot hole in the sky.

He dreamt about the particular time when those melancholy promises had travelled out across the baked air, when Bill had leaned in close and translated everything that was being said as dirty whispers in John's ear. Replacing Allah's name with John's own like an American heathen. Defaming the beautiful words:

'John is greater. I bear witness that there is no lord except John. I bear witness that John's mouth is the Messenger of God. Make haste towards sucking cock. Make haste towards fucking. Fucking is better than sleep. Make haste towards the best thing. John is greater. There is no lord except John.' 

He dreamt about punching Bill's shoulder hard and laughing at the git. His dream morphing into when he fucked him for the first and last time that night with no protection under the naked spill of the Milky Way. Bill's tattooed body curled up and back above him like an apostrophe as he slowly sank down onto John's cock. John fighting the entire time to keep perfectly still. 

It had been a hell of a time getting him stretched wide enough to do it, his dream remembers, with nothing but mineral oil and spit for lube between them. But that glorious slow slide inside. The constant repositioning of Bill's hands on John's strong thighs as he managed his own descent with his fingers digging in. John's dream recalled with perfect clarity that shit-eating grin on Bill's face when his hips finally hit the hard cradle of John's pelvis and it was all seared into John's brain like a cattle brand. 

And then Bill leaned forward. . . and the dream turned into a nightmare. 

Because John's shoulder is suddenly on FIRE.

And Bill's lips are splitting open now much wider than they should and the whispers that are pouring down from Bill's red mouth hurt just as much as the bullet had going in: 'Za ta sara meena kawom Za ta sara meena kawom Za ta sara meena kawom. I love you I love you I love you.' Before he is leaning back again.

And then the body above him no longer belongs to Bill because the tattoos are disappearing. Blanching white and seeping away like milk overtaking a picture. And now the six foot stretch of Sherlock is writhing above him with a rictus stretched across his beautiful face, pinioned by John's cock and trying desperately to control a situation that was well beyond his control. New words pushing through that pouty red mouth:

'Only when I'm emotionally compromised enough to circumvent my thoughts, does this happen. . .when I'm desperate for affection at the end.'

And then John is pushing Sherlock up and off, pushing him to the ground and following him down to where the world is tipping over because there is no floor beneath them and suddenly John's reaching hand is leaning over the crystal bar to shake hands with Miles, Miles with the thousand watt smile, who's telling him with his own red mouth that 'seeing a mate off is a lucky thing. Getting to be there and saying what you wanted to say. Getting to go out under your own steam.'

And then he feels that back of his neck prickle and John is looking over his shoulder at another bloody smile is there, staring at him from behind. But this one's seeping grotesquely. Spilling blood like a carnivore. 

And it belongs to the man he'd seen at the bar. The one he should have noticed from the start, with the slick dark suit and the throat tattoo and the fire-coloured hair. And he is grinning and grinning and GRINNING like a cat in the catnip garnished cream saying something John can't hear and so he turns to get closer and the voice becomes clear:

'you're cordially invited to join us John Watson...'

And as he speaks the blood seeps down over his chin and down the flag...

And as John tries to go to the man, pushing up from his stool and charging back, bodies are piling up in front of him. Blocking his way. Hollow bodies missing their insides are falling onto other twisted corpses. And John's clawing over them now, charred remains of skin peeling back beneath his hands as he climbs and pushes and makes his way through. Fist over fist. Feet sliding on soft tissue. Trying to get to the red-haired man who is still taunting him through a mouthful of dripping blood. 

And finally John reaches him...

Wraps one hand around the Union Jack...

Pulls his other fist back... 

And lets fly.

John is awakened abruptly by a sudden crash that thunders through the sitting room. It takes him a moment to realize that he's on his feet with the blankets pooled around his socked ankles and can't seem to understand why there's plaster dust gently floating through the slanting sunbeams.

So he blinks, then blinks again, clearing the last tendrils of the nightmare from his mind while calmly taking in the fist-sized depression now decorating the wall just below Sherlock's picture frame of flies and larvae. He stands stunned for only a moment when he finds his hands empty.

And then he sees the sparkle.

The rock he had previously held had split open nearly perfectly in the violence of it being hurled across the sitting room. Two halves lying cleaved upon the table top. Still numb with shock and understanding, John comes forward to take up one of the halves and hold it towards the light.

The inside of geode is a riot of colour. Layers of orange and gold and blonde are separated with thin bands of white that radiate out from a halo of neon pink towards the inner most center. And at its very core is a burst of star red crystals which sparkle magnificently when his hand trembles. 

It is a rock with a heart made of fire, hidden away in a modest shell.

'/I felt it was a good representation/.

And suddenly, with a shocking deep breath and wide wet eyes, John KNOWS what he has to do now. To stop this outside threat. To mend what is broken between them. To accept and reciprocate what strange confessions of Sherlock Holmes has pronounced for the likes of John Watson.

The skeleton of a plan begins forming in John's mind as he makes his way to the bathroom. Mind cleared with purpose, he takes what may very be his last dose of Comvita and quickly searches the kitchen and sitting room for his wallet and keys.

Thanks to his military fortitude, he had already been dressed for the day in a tee shirt and jeans. Unwilling to lounge about the flat in his pyjamas despite his illness. So it is only the simple task of pulling on his jacket and slipping on his shoes before he was ready to go.

He meets Mrs. Hudson on the front step coming in, her hands free of the rubbish sack she'd just taken to the bins. "Oh! John! Where are you off to?"

"I've just remembered something." He lies, but takes his time to stop and speak with her. Because this may well be the very last time he will get the chance. "I need to step out for a bit. Call me if Sherlock comes back, yeah?"

"Of course I will dear. But do please zip up your jacket at least. You should have bundled up a bit more in your condition."

"I will. I'm alright. Thank you." John says, taking her by the shoulders, which makes her eyes go a bit wide, and embracing her. Her thin, old body feels wonderful and motherly in his arms. "What's all this about?" She asks in mild alarm.

"I just--" he says, swallowing down something thick in his throat. Drawing back, "I just want to say thank you for being our landlady. For putting up with us as tenants and for all the things you didn't have to do but you always did anyway. Thank you."

"Well of course I would...but John?"

"And I want to apologize for your wall. You can take it out of my rent. I don't mind." He adds quickly and with a last genuine smile, zips up his Haversack and leaves.

"My what?"

But John is already walking away at a clipped pace, his thumbs poking at his phone as his neck prickles with the feeling of being watched as he slips between the streetlights. He glances out of the corner of his eye at a zebra crossing and sees every shadow loom suspiciously larger. He knows he's being followed but fortunately nothing more menacing than the bitter cold materializes.

He only has one shot at this.

The texts he sends back and forth to Sherlock before descending into the entrance of Baker Street tube station are simple. Anemic, almost. Stripped of everything but the essential data:

'Where are you? We need to talk.' it reads.

'Bart's.' Comes Sherlock's spartan reply.

'Don't move.' John texts before disappearing below ground. 'I'm coming to you.'

//


	12. The Adventures of the Stochastic Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John makes a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another little piece of the journey. and i'm sorry for the cliffhanger. I owe you all a thousand thanks. <3 (and an ending before season 4...god willing.) :D

"It was foolish of you to come here John." Sherlock chastised as John entered the lab. He clicked over another slide from the projector he was using, favouring John with a cold glance that felt like a lash across the face. "You should've remained at Baker Street." 

The nettle of John's parting words no doubt still stung.

Even still, John was undeterred. He closed the door behind him and stepped through the image's broadcast, walking until his dark silhouette no longer eclipsed it. The colours shifted and slid over his Haversack before righting themselves on the solid white background. 

When he turned to look, he could see that Sherlock was studying a series of large strange objects that came in a multitude of colours. Slowly, he began to recognize the projections for what they were: false-coloured scanning electron micrographs of tilting viruses, a series of them, all playing havoc with delicate human systems. 

This must be Sherlock's way of deflecting.

"I stayed with groups. Kept my wits about me." John replied eventually before letting the silence spread again. He was content to take his time in admiring the colours before him as if he were at an art gallery. The plan that was currently unfurling in his mind was making him see the beauty in life, in /this/ moment, all the more vividly. But it could not hold a candle to the true beauty in the room. 

John turned back to Sherlock. "Besides, you weren't there. Makes it a bit difficult to speak to you."

Sherlock clicked over to the next slide with more force on the button than necessary and John watched the hidden mechanics of that long pale throat as it swallowed and swallowed. For a moment Sherlock's eyes are shiny with shame, before it's instantly supplanted with resolve. 

"I do not require your forgiveness John, if that's what you'd like to speak about. I would not ask that of you. My actions... that has never been what I desired of you from all of this. I was complacent in letting a man get killed. That is unforgivable. But it was necessary. You don't understand."

But John was ready for this. "But I /do/."

Sherlock's head swivels, a look of incredulity smashing through his beautiful features. 

John has his full attention now and his cool eyes are on FIRE.

"Then WHY?!" Sherlock thunders. "What could possibly be worth risking your life after all I've--" he stops and shakes his head, as if trying to shift back into his old way of thinking. As if he's alone in this again. "...after everything?" 

Sherlock's angry. Angry at John for shamelessly risking himself. Exposing himself to the monsters in the night that Sherlock had been trying to keep him from.

"I came here to tell you that I've no right to be angry at you."

This confession seems to put a halt to the brittle shell of isolation that Sherlock's beginning to rebuild around himself again and he looks so young when he's confused. He blinks and with his soft brows furrowed pensively, that wrinkle on the bridge of his nose forms just as quickly as John wants to kiss it away.

John wants to make this clear and so he takes a step forward, fringing into Sherlock's space. "I've no right to be angry because I willingly killed a man who threatened you after the first day we met, Sherlock. And I would absolutely do it again if I had to. In a HEARTBEAT I would do it. I would do /anything/ to keep you safe. Go to any length. Sacrifice anyone. I /know/ that feeling. It just took me a while to see."

He watches Sherlock's face as it shifts from confusion to a steady fear. A fear that John might indeed know what it's like to love someone this deeply and be helpless against it.

John presses in further, with both words and space, wanting to cement this into the entrance of Sherlock's Mind Palace like a plaque. "When I killed Jefferson Hope, I didn't feel bad. I said he was a bad man only after you asked me if I was alright. And it's true, he was. But...that didn't really matter to me at the time. It still doesn't. He could've been the best man on the planet and I'd have still shot him anyway. For even touching a hair on your head I would have ended him."

Sherlock's face has resumed its pensive listening. Pouty lips pulled tight.

John takes another step closer.

"You've seen my book of names Sherlock. If I were to start judging people on things like that; I'd be a bloody hypocrite. I've gotten many people killed. I've /killed/ people."

"War is different." Sherlock tried, standing up a little straighter. Still willing to guard John's dignity.

Words from a lifetime ago come floating back to John, conjured up as if by ghosts: '/when you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield/' It strengthens the resolve in his plan.

The next words he says are chosen with care. "THIS is war."

Sherlock raises his chin a bit. "Yes. It is. But someone's threatening /you/ this time... I--" 

John flexes his hand by his side and blows out a breath, nodding, knowing what Sherlock can't say. "There have been a lot of things in my life that have tried to put me in the ground and they haven't managed it yet, but what they have managed to do is to make me regret some bloody enormous things in the process. Which I'm not willing to let that happen again.

"So I'm going to say this now and I'm going to say this to you as often as you need to hear it to get it through that idiot, genius brain of yours: I love you Sherlock."

Sherlock's spine tightens until he's rigid. His kaleidoscopic eyes shifting colours like a prism.

"I /love/ you Sherlock Holmes. God help me, I love you and I love you and I will never stop loving you because that is not something that will /ever/ happen." John is close enough now to reach a hand around the taller man's neck and pull him down. It unclips something sharp in his chest when Sherlock comes willingly and he pulls their foreheads together to touch. 

John stares straight into those brittle, beautiful eyes. Voice dropping into a fervent whisper. "You were wrong when you said I wouldn't love you after we had sex. Probably the only thing you've ever been truly wrong about in your entire life...because I do love you. I /still/ love you. NOTHING'S ever going to change that. But you hated having to do it that way though, didn't you? You regret it. It wasn't what you wanted. Not really."

"It was not unbearable." Sherlock lies.

"You hated every minute of it." John replies, shaking his head slightly. In disbelief. In remorse. "You were punishing yourself."

"Perhaps." Sherlock concedes.

Taking a breath through his nose, John squeezes the back of Sherlock's neck. "The next time it won't be like that. I swear to you."

"There will be a next time?" Tears are beginning to rim Sherlock's lids.

" 'course. If you want there to be."

"I used you." Sherlock confesses.

"You use me ALL the time." John says with a sad smile.

"Not like that." His whispered words are hard. As if spoken in contrition.

"No. But I didn't like you using me to hurt yourself more. So for the record, we're never doing that again...not that way. I'm not putting you through that again Sherlock. You take what you need from me, but no more of you suffering on my behalf. Do you understand?"

"I didn't mean to lose myself so much."

"It's alright." John pulls him in and kisses him deliberately on his eye, causing his closing lashes to clip a tear down his sharp cheek. "I don't mind."

"You never do. Do you?" Sherlock asks shakily. His deep voice sounding in utter awe of John's limits. As if it were a wonder that anyone could love him this much.

"No."

Sherlock sniffs. Hands clenched at his sides as if he isn't allowed to touch John right now. Not while he is so vulnerable. "I just wanted to know...at least once...what it felt like."

John wants to wrap him in his arms, pull him close, but if he does he won't let go. And he /has/ to let go. "I know, love. But it's not meant to feel like that. It's meant to feel good. Next time it will be better. It'll be better for the both of us. Alright?"

Sherlock nods, sniffing.

"But Sherlock, you have to know just one thing...there's just one more thing..."

"What?" Light eyes come open. An occurrence akin to new galaxies being born.

He is far too fast for Sherlock to anticipate him. 

The bone-meeting-bone THWACK! of their skulls colliding permeate the room. A perfect hit right to his crown makes Sherlock go instantly limp and John grunts at the sudden weight sliding through his arms. It's a near thing that he doesn't drop him completely, but is able to muster enough strength through the pain in his forehead to help ease his lover down. 

John cradles his unconscious head until it lays softly against the linoleum, then turns Sherlock's loose body into the recovery position on his side, making sure to tilt his chin up to open his airway. It will be a while before he wakes or is possibly found.

The tears burn hot and hard in John's eyes, some of them spilling down and slicking onto Sherlock's pale face as he presses apologetic kisses to the hot red blotch high and center on Sherlock's forehead. He has no doubt it's going to turn into a pretty nasty goose egg in a little while.

John's breath comes out shaking when he speaks next. His voice gruff. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry Sherlock. But I have to do this. I have to make this alright. And the only person I am NOT willing to sacrifice is /you/. I just can't. So I'm going to solve this and I'll come back to you and we'll grow old together, alright? But right now I have to fix this. On my own." 

He presses his lips to Sherlock's lax mouth, but it isn't the same without the madman kissing back, and an ugly noise rises unbidden from him as he clambers to his feet. That this may be the last time he would ever touch this man again is nearly anathema.

His legs feel weak. His heartbeat is out of control. His left hand goes practically limp at the end of his arm at what might possibly be the most traitorous time possible.

He doesn't look back as he leaves Bart's. He can't. Not when he knows precisely how it will look to leave the love of his life lying on the floor.

//

The cold of the night outside immediately eats at the tears on his cheeks. Making his face burn. John wipes them away with the back of his right hand and shoves his useless other into his coat pocket, hoping sharply that it will regain feeling soon.

"Good evening Doctor Watson." Comes a cool voice from behind him.

John stops dead in his tracks, taking a moment for one good breath before turning to confront what he has been avoiding all night. 

A black Rolls Royce is idling almost silently by the kerb. The back door open wide to reveal a bespoke interior completely soaked in mahogany leather and red accents. The heat from inside shimmering up into the sky. 

The driver stands solemnly in a pressed black suit, sporting a steel gray beard and mustache. His hands are tucked politely before him and John doesn't hold back the incredulous smirk as he recognises this man.

CASH ONLY is scrawled across his knuckles. A spider web tattoo nets out from his temple.

He is curiously lacking a dog.

The man-formerly-known-as the bouncer from The Jolly Bulldog indicates to the open door with a plate-sized hand. "If you'll join us please sir. We've been expecting you."

John approaches him, tilting up his chin as he gets closer, sizing this larger man up and making sure to look at him in both his eyes. Letting him see that John H. Watson former Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers and friend/colleague/blogger/lover of the World's Only Consulting Detective is not afraid.

And never will be.

He waits a beat. And then another before speaking. "I'll bet you have."

It's the last thing he remembers vividly before sliding into the car.

//


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy crap lovelies! do you even remember what's going on? cause I don't. but set your phasers to finished anyway!! 
> 
> AND beware of the TRIGGER WARNINGS AHEAD: non-consensual drug use, non-consensual undressing, violence and whump, graphic descriptions of first aid, posthumous slander of real life person, snowballing, and sex!

CHAPTER THIRTEEN - The Adventures of the Enlightened Man

It wasn't the suit necessarily that John objected to; after all, it was a gorgeous three-piece bespoke cut from the same bolt as all the previous victims' had been. It fit him like a second skin and seemed to rival even what John had seen of Mycroft's wardrobe by a few hundred quid. So it wasn't that.

It was the long silent drive with the doors locked in a back seat where the windows were so tinted that he couldn't see out of them. It was feeling the car drop in elevation and slow to a stop somewhere below ground. It was the great lorry of a driver opening the door and letting John get in a couple of good punches and a kick to the face before wrestling him to the floorboards and pinning him down by sitting on his chest.

It was his giant palm clamping over John's nose until his mouth opened desperate for breath, followed by the two fingers hooked in his cheek to keep him from biting down. It was the terrible taste of the man's hands as they pried up his tongue and swabbed the pre-crushed pill all around the pink parts of his mouth.

It was the crushing grip he kept on John's jaw while he waited for the lorazepam to begin to work.

It was unwillingly losing himself to the drug. His body going lax without his consent. His mind suddenly refusing to care.

It was being stripped naked and redressed in that bespoke fucking suit that he really objected to. 

Or he would have objected, had he been in the right state of mind at all.

John's head lolls back with the motion of walking and something about being physically manhandled out of a dark garage and suddenly into the most opulent hallway he's ever seen through a secret door that's hidden behind a twelve foot portrait is more than a bit discombobulating. Even if he had been sober. 

The hall itself seems larger and longer than the entire block that 221B resides on. A decadent chasm of white and gold, lined with marble statues and overly large oil paintings and a spread of fine carpet so red it feels like he's following a blood trail.

So when the endless dragging finally ceases and they come to the room at the end of the hall, he's overwhelmed with the thought that he's been brought directly to the massacre. And it doesn't even phase him.

Unlike the hallway, there is no white. Instead /everything/ is saturated with red damask. The only respite in colour is the cream and gold ceiling that curls and scrolls like inside-out cathedral tops and the gold-framed portraits the size of small cars hanging up on the walls.

At the perfect center of this long red room is a massive dining table that stretches from one end to the other. Its top is polished to a glass-like gloss and from the sheer length of it, it looks like it would be able to seat about two hundred people had there been enough chairs. But as it is there are only two. One at the far end and one directly in the middle, right in front of where the red wall breaks away into a heavy red velvet curtain.

John is bodily dragged clear to the far end of the table and plopped unceremoniously down at the place sitting. He blinks drunkenly at the bone china dish, the perfect setting of too much gold cutlery, and a rosette-shaped silk napkin that looks as soft and spiraled as a dollop of cream.

The upside-down reflection of himself inside his spoon is just discombobulating enough make him nearly fall over with dizziness, until the brute beside him claps his 'CASH' hand on his shoulder and pulls him upright again. And suddenly John is looking at person who hadn't been here before. 

The woman is short and a little stout, swathed in a light gold dress suit and standing perfectly prim before the curtain a few feet away. She's old, with curled white hair and a softly powdered face. But in her shoulders and demeanor she states that she is anything but fragile. Her crepe paper hands are clasped before her suit jacket and a string of pearls with a matching brooch lay against her lapels.

Even with his tunnel vision, John knows that he should recognize her. Her face is so familiar it's as though he's seen it countless times before. The answer's just there on his periphery like a mote he can't quite see straight on and as he slogs through all the names and faces of the older women he's known in his life, he realizes that he can hardly come up with more than a handful. Which should make this all the easier, but it doesn't.

"Good evening Dr. Watson." The woman says while he continues to stare. Her voice is as brittle and light as a salted wafer and so damned familiar. Her pronunciations are clear and concise with the well-defined cadence of a monarch. And her smile, that peculiar and one-of-a-kind smile, that rancid grin of all brown teeth--

And John finally figures it out.

"Aha!" He boasts. His hand claps down on the table and he startles himself a bit with the noise. He waves a finger at her rudely. "I've seen you on the telly!"

"Indeed you have." The Queen Mother sniffs at him, her polite smile not nearly as congenial as it appears on a television screen. "I'll forgive your discourtesy of not addressing me properly, as you are rather...inebriated. But I would like you to know that it is a pleasure that you finally have accepted my invitation."

It takes John a moment to figure out what she's talking about, as his eyes rather get lost tracing over the damask behind her. This is a pretty place, he decides. It looks rather like a palace.

"Goodness Billy, were they all like this?" She asks when John fails to reciprocate in the conversation.

The bouncer makes a noise in the affirmative and the Queen Mother sighs defeatedly. "Well I had had a whole monologue prepared for this moment. But if he's not going to even be able to hold a conversation with me then I suppose we will have to forgo all the pleasantries. Please go and inform my dog that I require him." 

The bouncer hesitates for a moment.

The Queen Mother purses her lips. "Oh for goodness' sake, I'm fairly certain that Dr. Watson is more of a threat in drowning himself with drool than he is of attacking me. Now go."

The bouncer leaves. And moments later the curtain John is strenuously investigating sweeps aside and the thin man with the Union Jack emblazoned across his neck comes out bent over a magnificent trolley. He's dressed in the same gray suit he'd been wearing at the club (sans jacket and tie with a white pocket handkerchief) and the swathe of his fiery hair blazes orange against all the red.

He stops briefly by the Queen Mother, but she waves him off. "Thank you but no. And it doesn't look as though Dr. Watson will be having any tea either. I'm afraid we'll have to move straight on to the savouries."

The tea tray is set on silent wheels and not a single utensil moves out of place as he comes towards John. It's set with bone china tea cups, a tea pot, stirring spoons, loose tea leaves, a tea strainer, and a pair of pliers. 

When John meets the man's eyes, he has the overwhelming feeling of being pushed back inside himself. His eyes are penetrating. Boring. They seem to slip beneath his skin and parse him out as if he were tidy cuts of meat. It's so unlike Sherlock's; where he is more keen to explore and disseminate all that he finds. With this man, he seems more to /devour/.

"And if you would please hurry this time," the Queen Mother says, a little impatiently. "I find myself rather ravenous after so much waiting."

With one long stretch of his arm, the man is sweeping all the expensive dishes from the table top in front of him and hoisting John bodily onto the table by his collar. Surprisingly strong for such a little bloke. John flops onto his back, his head striking solid wood and he's as helpless as a kitten with the ceiling spinning wildly above him.

The Union Jack neck man is over the top of him. Crowding in.

John lifts his hands in a token effort of fighting back, but is easily subdued. His hands are pressed back onto the table and the gravity from that alone keeps them there. Somewhere deep inside he's screaming at himself. But his outer body will not move. The lorazepam is overwhelming.

"I think I'd like to start with his heart when you're finished." The Queen Mother's voice floats to him from not so far away. "I should think it's the strongest muscle you possess, Dr. Watson. From everything I've seen these past few weeks. I bet it will be the most delicious part of you."

And it is in that moment that John knows.

Knows why the previous victims had been missing random organs. Not for profit on the red market. Not for keepsakes or collections. 

They were stolen simply to be eaten.

For Queen and Country. No less.

Before he can even attempt to laugh at the absurdity of it, of the fact that he's about to be eaten /alive!/ the Union Jack neck man is wrenching his jaws open wide enough for the pliers to move in. 

John kicks his heels, bumping the table, but his body is heavy. Filled with too much sand. 

The pliers find purchase around his second molar and John's tongue blunders against it, the metal cutting into his gums, and just as a heavy pain begins swelling in his jaw, everything is brought to a standstill.

"I hope I'm interrupting."

The pliers relent instantly and slide out from John's mouth, followed by a backwash of saliva that sluices straight for his throat. John splutters and coughs, trying not to choke and despite feeling like he's drowning, his joy rises first to the surface.

He'd recognize that voice anywhere.

"Ah. Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" The Queen Mother announces delightedly. "I had wondered if you would make an appearance. Oh dear. You look a little worse for wear since I last saw you. Did you run out on somebody else when the stakes got too high?"

John tips his neck up and back, seeing the man he loves standing upside-down at the far end of the long long table.  
He is dressed in his coat and his scarf. Sporting a great purple bruise in the center of his forehead that's bled down into his eye and turned his socket dark. His eye seems to glow all the more brightly for it.

John smiles at him. Large and loopily. Reaching his hand out as though he might be able to touch him from all the way over here. 

Sherlock's cut glass eyes glance at John briefly before turning back to the Queen Mother. "You'll have to forgive me, Angela. There were a few other more pressing matters I had to attend to. But I'm here now, perhaps we can talk."

The Queen Mother's eyebrows raise a little, her voice sly. "Talk? And just what is it precisely that you would like to talk about I wonder?"

Sherlock hums and tilts his head, both of them poised like two people at the opposite ends of a chess board. Ones that seem to have been playing this game for a long while now. "How about we talk about you? How it's been YOU all along who's been behind these bodies turning up with missing organs."

The Queen Mother smiles, pleased with herself. "Ah good. You have solved it then. What a relief. I was starting to worry you'd never figure it out. So tell me, when did the great detective finally catch on?"

"Later than I would have liked," Sherlock admits. "But it all started to make sense eventually. I just wonder when precisely it was that you began vying for my attention and not just improperly disposing your leftovers. Trying to entice me back with corpses instead of invitations was a . . . nice touch."

The Queen Mother only raises her thin eyebrows in concession.

"But spelling out John's name with the victims' names. That," he clucks at her, shaking his head. "was ludicrously tacky. Did you lift it from a book?"

The Queen Mother only shrugs minutely. "It's certainly possible. I don't know. It's probably out of a Miss Marple episode for all I know. But it's what he insisted on."

"What 'he'?" It's Sherlock's turn to be intrigued.

"Oh. Don't tell me you've forgotten him so soon. He'll be so upset. You left quite an impression on him, young man, that's for certain. He hasn't shut up about you since the pool." 

"The pool?" Sherlock's words come out in a whisper. "You mean Moriarty?"

"Yes indeed. He's such a lovely man." She's wearing that television smile again. "He wanted me to let you know that he was glad to finally be able to make your acquaintance in person the other night. You were everything he had hoped for. You and your pet."

Her eyes rove over John, who's still lying supine on the table. The Union Jack neck man is still poised like a statue above him, taking it all in. The Queen Mother goes on. "I had initially disregarded Mr. Moriarty's services in the beginning, thinking I could handle you all by myself when you began to stick your clever little detective nose into my business. But after inviting you to my house for cards only to watch you cheat, I've come to the conclusion that Mr. Moriarty's consultations have been indispensable. He's the one that convinced me to draw out your punishment and I must say, it's been an absolute /delight/ watching you run around and solve my puzzles, Mr. Holmes. 

"And imagine our surprise seeing just what lengths you're willing to go to for a man you've hardly just met. My my. Mr. Moriarty said that you were in deep...but I never truly understood it until now. Bravo! It's been like watching a dinner theatre about doomed lovers written solely for me."

"The thrill of the game is unlike anything else, I'll concede." Sherlock says, a cold wind blowing through his eyes now. Now that the stakes have been raised. "But your pursuit of Dr. Watson is a step too far."

"Oh was it now?" She asks with a bit of a laugh. She's intrigued by his anger. "Because I rather remember you trying to trick my dog with a decoy Mr. Holmes. You sacrificed an innocent man whose only purpose in life was to delay John Watson's death for just a little bit longer. Was it worth it? To find him here so close to dying anyway?"

Sherlock swallows. His eyes betraying him. He takes a step forward and puts his hands out. "Then take me. Eat me if you like. Feed me to your dog or turn me over to Moriarty. But leave John alone."

She cocks her eyebrow at his cheek. "I'm afraid you're in no position to negotiate, young man. I understand that this must be hard for you, admitting defeat. Having to show your cards with all your bets on the table. A bit of deja vu, is it not?"

"Then take it." 

"No no no. I don't want just one. Only one of your kidneys was the original bet, remember? Right before you made the fool mistake of doubling down with a bluff. And you nearly got away with it, until you saw I had a straight flush. 

"So, you find yourself in a bit of a spot. What will you do this time? There are no fire alarms to pull here. No where to run. Not without leaving your friend behind. So I'll be taking both your kidneys Mr. Holmes. Along with whatever else I'd like. Does that suit you?" Her small eyes glitter in victory. Her quarry trapped in a kill jar. "Because that suits me just fine."

"Then please," he beseeches her with the last option he has, his eyes rimmed with tears. "Before you do anything. Allow me to say one last thing to John."

She sighs, but allows him to continue. "Yes. Go on."

During his final hour, Sherlock turns to John. His lips pulled in. A great sadness coming over his brutalized face. "I must apologize to you John. For the confession I am about to make," he takes a deep breath, "but i'm afraid you've been poisoned. 

"By me."

John's brain is a cacophony of alarms and words /poisoned! I've been p o i s o n e d !/ . . .but the thoughts reach him slowly. Through treacle.

"Over the past week I have been dosing your tea with poison. Perhaps you would have noticed...though I doubt you would have figured it out. It was my attempt to create a failsafe in you, if you will. Should any harm have come to you. If they had gotten their hands on you and I was not able to be there... or if you had found yourself unable to escape and I had come too late...I wanted there to be recourse for your death. You've proven twice now that you're willing to sacrifice yourself. And I am grateful.

"I knew of your plan to go to them the moment you met me at St. Bart's. I knew of your plan before /you/ had even thought of it, I'd wager. But you were generous and you gave me an entire week. So for that I thank you. I thank you and I'm sorry it had to end like this."

John is so utterly confused. "Sh'lck?"

Sherlock turns back to the Queen Mother now, having repented his sins. He is infinitely solemn. Calm enough to close his eyes. "So should you continue on with your plan of eating ANY part of Dr. Watson after my death, know that it will come at a price. And it will only be a matter of time to see whether it is the poison or the disease that kills you first."

The Queen Mother is caught on the back foot for a moment. Her face a rictus of abject horror. Clearly reeling. "Wha--what do you mean? What DISEASE?"

And it is in this moment, that Sherlock's eyes fly open. And his fingers splay before his chin. The madman has had an ace hidden up his sleeve this entire time. "Don't tell me you haven't noticed...

"Your unsteady stance? A sharp decline in your muscle control? The deterioration of your speech? No wonder they no longer ask you for television interviews...I knew you were in the ambulant stage of the disease by your penmanship alone. How badly were your hands shaking when you wrote Dr. Watson that invitation?"

The Queen Mother had paled considerably, Sherlock's words ringing through her like a bell. She looks hollow. Her hands squeeze together tightly enough for her bony knuckles to bulge through her papery skin. She /knows/.

"Your pursuit of exotic cuisine has betrayed you, Angela. So tell me, you're a woman of the world, have you heard of a disease called 'kuru'?"

"Kuru?" It's barely a whisper.

Sherlock tips his head accomodatingly. "It's rare, I'll grant you. Not seen much outside an indigenous tribe in Papa New Guinea. Though, then again, not many people culturally are in the habit of /eating/ other people's brains so I can see how it has failed to go mainstream. 

"The Americans had quite a scare of it in the beef industry a while back, when it was discovered that they were feeding their cows their own dead. Still not ringing any bells? Hm? Then perhaps you're more familiar with it being called Cruetzfeld-Jakobs?"

There is a sharp inhale, a barely audible gasp from the Queen Mother, but in a room so steeped in silence it was tantamount to a scream.

"Ah! So you DO know what it is. Then you also know that it's caused by a prion that can be present in brain tissue and that its effects on anyone who happens to ingest it are completely incurable. 

"Are you curious to learn of the other symptoms your illness will progress with? No? Well perhaps I will share anyway...for posterity:

"During the second stage, your tremors will worsen along with your muscle control. You will become incapable of walking and will require assistance even to stand. You will become emotionally unstable and suffer bouts of uncontrollable laughter, which is just as well, because when you reach the terminal stage of the disease, your life will not end happily.

"By the final stage you will become incontinent, unable to swallow, unable to sit, and generally become unresponsive to your own surroundings. You will - in essence - become a disease-ridden shell of the person you were and there is NOTHING you can do to stop it.

"So I rather suspect that a much more pressing concern for you right now is how you might possibly extend your life for as long as you can. Given your rather advanced age in league with this disease, I've calculated that you have approximately six more months to live..."

"I--" Her hands are over her mouth. Her eyes shining with terrified tears.

Even the Queen Mother has the good sense to know that Sherlock Holmes' words are infallible.

She lurches backwards through the curtain without another word. Fleeing from the room. From an illness she will never recover from. 

A scream rends the air and there's a mad blur darting across the dining room. The Union Jack neck man is upon Sherlock before he's even able to put up any sort of defense. Mad fingers are tearing at his coat. Teeth snapping at any available surface. He's absolutely livid and looks ready to tear Sherlock down to his bones with his rage.

Sherlock crashes backward onto the table top, off balance with the scrambling weight atop his chest and can barely do anything but throw up his arms up to protect his face.

All it takes is one shout, one startled yelp from Sherlock and John is up, swiping out his hand for a weapon, and moving before the drugs know to stop him. 

He's upon them both in an instant, hands clawing at the Union Jack neck man's clothes. Trying to pull him off. Grasp slipping. Fingers refusing to grip. In a desperate gesture he goes for the soft bits he can reach, just like the military taught him, and he presses his hand into the man's skull and rends.

There's a loud POCH!

And the entire room freezes in place.

Sherlock is frozen where he lays. John is frozen where he's bent. And the man with one eyeball now scooped clean from its socket is frozen momentarily in time.

Reality only seems to resume when the tea strainer that had been in John's hand and had served to make such an extraordinary weapon, makes silent contact with the floor.

The scream that the Union Jack neck man had made before is nothing compared to the one he makes now. It is loud. It is high. And it is /afraid/. His hand is cupped next to his face, his dislocated eye cradled in his palm as he goes shrieking out of the room.

Without a second thought, John Watson is on his heels.

He CANNOT escape.

John's vision funnels down to the dark mass fleeing before him through a tunnel of red. He does not hear Sherlock call his name. Does not feel his body's reticence. He simply chases. Runs full bore. Arms pumping. Legs pumping. Heart roaring. Portraits blurring at his sides.

He comes closer. Hands reaching. Reaching for the Union Jack neck man's jacket. Missing as he darts around sharply and scrambles up a curving flight of stairs. They are climbing. Climbing. C l i m b i n g.

The steps are red and the steps are marble and their loud foot falls echo mismatchedly through the cold stone room. Like their heartbeats. One achase. The other chased. Predator and prey.

John reaches again. Coming close. Snags an open placket of the vest as they crest the top. Takes hold! The Union Jack neck man twists in his grip. Trying to fight him off. His face a twist of hate and terror and pain as he spins. He goes for John's face as they stumble. Tripping backwards. Desperately swinging. Wrestling. Grappling. Eye bouncing on its string.

And much to both their surprise, they go tumbling over the marble rail.

//

The impact with the ground lights up John's bones in the same moment that the force of it knocks the air from his lungs. 

He is left gasping, trying to pull in desperate mouthfuls of expensive suit while his skeleton sings with pain. He can't pick up his head no matter how hard he tries and he can't shift his body away from the body he's lying on, which makes the darkness behind his eyelids sparkle with panic. He fights fiercely to get his arms free, but they are trapped and he is /trapped/ and he can't b r e a t h e OHGOD! he CAN'T BREATHE there's something ON HIS FACE HECAN'TBREA--

"John!" 

Sherlock's loud voice splits through the nightmare like shovel of dirt lifting from a grave above and John clings to it desperately.

"John? You're alright! You're alright. Just take a deep breath and try to calm down!"

But he can't! Doesn't Sherlock see? /That/ is precisely what's wrong! He is suffocating and trapped and his chest is not working and there's something wrong with his a r m s...

But Sherlock can do better than see; he can OBSERVE. And he takes one look at John and he knows what's was going on. Why John is spasming like an open-mouthed fish. Why he can't seem to calm down. And he spells it out for him as plainly as he can. His commanding voice as calm as he can make it. "Your arms, John. Your arms are trapped underneath him. I'm going to lift him up and you're going to roll free. Alright? On the count of three: one, two, three!"

John tries to say 'no'. John tries to say 'stop'. 'Wait, I think I'm broken'. 'Wait! Not yet!' But the body he is hugging shifts upward in a horribly limp way and coming unpinned makes his arms loll terribly and the new fire that lights up in his left shoulder burns like a ransacked city.

With whatever air is left in him, John screams. 

Sherlock's hands are quick to roll him onto his back, while John tries to gather his broken arms to himself so that he can curl up like a wounded thing, but with a desperate moan he realizes that his left arm will not come to him. It stays strung out against the red red carpet and it will not move. It cannot move. It may has well have come clean off.

And his mind begins to spiral anew. Dark thoughts of helplessness and hopelessness bubbling up like choking oil. He's broken again. He's damaged...

But there's a heavy thump and Sherlock is over him with black curls hanging like a frame about his face. His large long hand smoothing through John's hair. Trying to comfort. Trying to soothe. His mouth is moving. Muttering. Mumbling something in that deep baritone and John has to really focus to hear what he is saying. Has to focus enough to cancel out the high-pitched whine he didn't realize he was making through his teeth to understand the other man's words. 

With effort, he lets his focus overtake his fear.

"Deep breaths now John. Listen to me. You've just got the wind knocked out of you. A couple of deep breaths and you'll start to feel better." Sherlock imitates the movements that John should be copying. One hand holding back his scarf so that John is able to see his face. He takes a large breath in through his mouth. Holds it. Then lets it go. "You do it now John. Just watch me and do what I do." Again. He does it again. And slowly but surely John can calm himself enough to do the same.

When he is finally able to shake the spasm from his diaphragm, Sherlock's anguished face breaks into a hugely relieved smile. "Good! Excellent! Very well done John. Again. Another." His hand is back to stroking John's hair. His thumb moving down to wipe at the tears that John didn't know had been dripping down his temples.

"My arm..." John wheezes when he finally can, trying in vain to pull his dead arm to him. "M-my arm's broken."

Sherlock gives a quick glance at his arms, assessing, before holding his face in his hands. "One is...possibly. But the other one's just dislocated. That's why it won't move. I'm going to put it back in. Alright? It'll feel better in a minute."

John hisses out a breath through his clenched teeth and nods, putting the words to their reasons. He recalls this same thing having happened to him back when he played footy as a kid. He remembers all the other boys' faces above him. Crowding in. Gawking and gathering, but not helping. He remembers it hurting and hurting until he'd finally been taken to A&E by his mum, blessedly not remembering anything after the injection they'd given him to take the pain away.

But that had been so long ago.

And he'll remember this.

When he looks over he sees that Sherlock is taking off one of shoes and is a bit confused until he positions his stockinged foot against the side of John's ribcage for leverage and is grateful. Sherlock takes up John's limp hand and offers no countdown this time, only a quiet 'ready?' before he begins to pull. 

The new pain flashes hot. But not hot enough to cauterize.

"Agh! CHRIST!" John shrieks as the ball of his humerus slips back into its glenoid socket and despite the initial flash, the after burn of his body coming back together banks down enough for him to gather his arm to him like a long lost child. He tries to find something beyond the pain and finds Sherlock (ALWAYS Sherlock) pulling his shoe back on.

"We have to leave now John." Sherlock says. He's looking around the empty hallway, almost as though he's expecting company at any time. "But you'll have to walk. Ambulances can't be seen anywhere near this property, they'll raise too many questions with the press. There's a car waiting for us in the underground car park, but we just need to get there. Can you walk?"

"I don't think I have a choice." Sitting up is a bitter chore and when his right arm shifts with gravity and tumbles into his lap, John lets out an inadvertent yelp. Something doesn't feel right at all. "Jesusfuhh--!" He's panting through his teeth, heel scuffing at the ground as a fresh layer of sweat breaks out across his face. "Oh fuck. Fuck. It's broken, Sherlock. It's broken." He groans and buries his face against Sherlock's shoulder. The soft warm crush of his coat. Afraid that this new wave of nausea washing through him might be enough to take him right under.

Walking suddenly doesn't seem like such a doable thing.

"You can do it John." Sherlock says, seeing him waver. He presses his lips against John's temple. "Just this little bit more and then we can go home."

"Home?" It seems so far away, but even the mere idea of it bolsters John confidence.

"Yes. Home. I can hold onto this one while we walk," Sherlock assures him, gingerly touching his right arm, "but I'll have to tie up the other one. Hold on." Judiciously, he's whipping off his scarf and tying the ends together to create a loop, infinitely careful as he slides it over John's neck and maneuvers his relocated arm into the makeshift sling.

That done, he stands and stoops, lifting John by his chest and is careful to keep his broken right arm cradled in his hand, bringing it up with them and pausing every time John lets out a distressed noise. By the time John's standing, his legs are watery enough that he has to use Sherlock as his main support.

"What about him?" John asks as he looks down. His eyesight is swimming raucously with pain and worry and tears, but he can still see that the Union Jack neck man is sprawled boneless on the carpet. Arms and legs loose as though he's been snipped at all his joints. His exhumed eyeball is resting next to his mouth and there's a halo of wet scarlet dying the carpet dark beneath his head.

John knows the answer before Sherlock even speaks it. "He's dead. Let them clean up their own garbage." 

With no more thought on the matter, Sherlock is encouraging them forward. Back to where the hall slopes down and John searches his brain for the place where he came in. He won't make it if they have to go clear back to the dining room, he knows. "There's a way out over here. There's a door behind a portrait. But I don't know which one."

Trusting him wordlessly, Sherlock reroutes them.

Each step is laborious.

Each footfall jarring despite the vigilant care Sherlock's giving to John's injuries.

It's Sherlock's keen eyes that allow them to find the seam in the wall where no one else would have thought to look.

The car park yawns before them, headlights piercing through the darkness like a beacon of hope. There is a dark figure standing next to the running vehicle. Tipped omnisciently on his brolly.

"Good evening brother. Dr. Watson."

Sherlock wastes no time with a return greeting. "Did you bring what I asked?" He demands, shouldering his way past Mycroft with John still cradled against him. John's face has gone ashen from the walk and he's beginning to tremble with shock. His feet have resorted to sliding against the ground instead of being able to lift into a full step.

"Of course. Just there." Mycroft says placidly.

Getting John maneuvered into the back of the car is a bit of a ungainly fumble, but when he is finally seated and eased back against Sherlock's chest, there's a set of heavy blankets thrown over his lap and a bottle of very expensive whiskey readily equipped with a bendy straw at his face.

"Drink this." Sherlock says, not allowing any arguments as he practically forces the straw against John's lips. "Please John. The alcohol will counteract the effects of the ethylene glycol I've been putting in your tea. I need you to drink it right now." 

Eager to stymie the pain cracking through him, John takes three large pulls, feeling the velvet burn of it as it courses down into his belly.

John tries hard not to whimper when his broken arm is taken atop Sherlock's own to steady it for the journey, but once he's resettled against the warmth of him and ensconced in the overwhelming comfort of him, his pain and his fear finally flee.

He is safe again. THEY are safe.

Now that there are no more monsters waiting in the dark to eat them.

The creep of exhaustion, which had been dogging him since the hall, makes its move into the empty space left inside him and blooms wide, overtaking everything.

"Drink." Sherlock instructs again, holding up the bottle and John does so without opening his eyes.

He hardly pays attention as Mycroft settles into the car opposite them like a snake in a rabbit hole. Hardly feels his steel blue eyes as they assess the state of each of man in turn before raising his knuckle to the partition and tapping lightly. 

"Hospital. Steady as you can," Mycroft says to the driver and just as John's able to feel the effects of his drink take hold of him and begin to numb the pain, they're being spirited away.

//

X-rays reveal that both the radius and ulna of John's right arm have been fractured, while the dislocation that had once affected his left, had been expertly sorted out by Sherlock. And while John's doctor comments on how lucky he was not to have done any further damage to himself falling from such a height, John is rather more concerned with being so inconveniently hobbled than he is on his 'good fortune'.

John spends a minimum two days in hospital; just long enough to make certain that the poison has been flushed from his system completely, before he's checking himself out under the claim that since the rest of his recovery is merely bed rest and a generous prescription of painkillers, so there's nothing more to be done here that he and Sherlock can't very well do at home.

"Are you certain about this John?" Sherlock asks, almost ironically, as he's forging John's signature perfectly onto the discharge papers as he asks it. But there's a seriousness to his face that leaves John just blinking at his profile in confusion.

"Of course I am." He says finally, but still doesn't understand when Sherlock refuses to meet his eyes.

He's left in this uneasy fog of questions until they're headed back to Baker Street, each of them sitting side by side but too far apart in the back seat of a cab looking silently out the opposite windows. John contemplates Sherlock's hesitance. Watches Sherlock's contemplative reflection, the way his knuckles are pressed to his lips.

And then it hits him.

Sherlock doesn't know if John still wants him around after this. If things can be the same.

And it makes John's heart peel apart. 

He should reach over and take Sherlock's other hand up in his, the one that's resting in the no man's land of a seat between them. Reassure him. 

He should. But he can't.

By the time they reach home, Mrs. Hudson is out on the front step, wrapped in a long puffy white coat. She's pacing fitfully on the kerb and does her best to get in the way of all Sherlock's efforts in trying to get John out of the cab.

"Oh, I was SO worried!" Mrs. Hudson frets, her eyeliner already beginning to run. "My boys. I'll never be able to let you out of my sight again! Look at the state of you." 

Her hands flap uselessly about John's body, afraid to disturb anything, until she finally settles on taking him by the sides of his head and placing a firm kiss to his forehead. 

"We will be /fine/." Sherlock says with an eye roll that's almost as loud as his words. Though in all fairness he doesn't look much better; his forehead has turned into an extraordinary nebula of green and yellow and the blackness in his socket has faded into a muddy purple. "Once you're done blocking us from getting in the door."

"Oh! Yes. Of course. You're right. I'm sorry. I'll just--" and she bustles off, opening the front door and making sure the way up is clear from any obstructions before coming back. "Oh honestly. You two really must /try/ to outlive me." She tuts anew as they make it into the entryway. Witnessing how slowly they move.

"If you are quite done grousing!" Sherlock finally snaps as her continued 'helping' only hinders their process further, "perhaps you could make yourself /actually/ useful and go and make John some tea!"

A stunned silence follows, before she throws up her chin in offense and goes stomping up the stares all the same. John flashes Sherlock a look.

It takes only a moment for Sherlock to deflate, "if you would please, Mrs. Hudson. For both of us." He grits out and she nods briskly, disappearing around the turn looking a lot less ruffled.

Secretly glad to have an overwhelming Mrs. Hudson elsewhere though, John pauses with his foot on the bottom step. Licking his lips, he looks up half of the seventeen steps that hadn't seemed nearly so daunting in his head back when he'd been lying in hospital and worries himself over them. They appear to have proliferated and grown more steep since he last saw them and with his sense of balance so compromised he imagines what it might be like to accidentally fall backwards and--

He startles a bit when Sherlock's hand presses against the small of his back. It's the first time since they're conversation at Bart's that Sherlock has touched him so softly. Everything from Buckingham Palace to the hospital until now had been helpful, necessary, strategic, but not soft. And it makes John's heart peel a bit more as to why it's so hesitantly offered. 

It's the first thing they have to make right once they get to the top of these fucking stairs, John thinks.

"I could carry you, if you wanted." Sherlock offers into the hesitant silence and the comment is just arrogant enough to get a snort out of John. 

"No. Nope. There will be absolutely no carrying." John assures him, before lifting his foot, setting his jaw, and beginning to climb.

When they finally reach 221B, John's legs are close to jelly and he feels alarmingly faint, but he stubbornly refuses the offer to go lie down in bed. If they're going to settle this uneasiness between them, they're going to do it in a way that doesn't make John feel like an invalid. 

Needing help out of his coat, John points his feet towards his chair and considers it a bloody miracle when he makes it there and is able to sit down with some control before outright collapsing. 

No longer able to help with anything now that John is settled, Sherlock is left standing awkwardly beside him, staring at his feet like he's waiting for a hammer to drop. John opens his mouth to speak, but just then Mrs. Hudson swoops in with her unerring timing and sets two cuppas down on his table before quietly excusing herself. 

She looks like she would rather stay and continue to hover, but she's also smart enough to realize that there's something going on between the two of them that needs sorted. 

She hesitates at the front door, pressing her fingers against her lips as if to physically hold back any further comments as she takes the time to look at each of her two tenants safe and together again in 221B before she's reassured enough to silently shut the door with tears in her eyes. 

The silence left between the two men falls. And falls. And falls.

Before shattering.

"Sherlock. Will you look at me please?" 

Sherlock frowns hard before lifting his eyes and the look he brings with them is akin to a man facing a firing squad. 

The rawness of it makes John panic a bit. "Can I have some of my tea?" 

It should be obvious by now that he's practically helpless, with one half of his right arm enclosed in a hard cast and his left wrapped up in a sling beneath his vest, but it seems to surprise Sherlock each and every time it's brought to his attention. Likely thinking too hard on something else.

Sherlock startles into action, dropping to his knees beside the chair to even out their height and taking care to blow across the mug before tilting it delicately to John's lips. Not letting a single drop go astray.

John wants desperately to reach out and grab ahold of him before Sherlock can pull away and it feels like one of life's most ultimate betrayals that he can't.

Sherlock sits back on his heels.

Sherlock's eyes are on John's lips now, which John decides is better progress than on the ground. "It's good." John says truthfully, licking his lips purely for the sight of those verdigris eyes following his tongue. "Y'know, I think I prefer my tea when it's not trying to rot my teeth out of my skull." John tries for levity, but sees it fail when Sherlock's face shutters through a myriad of emotions before finally settling on resigned.

"Yes. Well," Sherlock lowers his head again, "I had to ensure that you remained hydrated while you were ill...while at the same time ensuring that you continued to be under the effects of the ethylene glycol. It seemed the most expedient method for both needs."

"Two birds. One stone. I get it...well," John says. "I understand why you did it, at least. Can't say I enjoyed being the test subject. But I have to say, it was rather clever."

"John." Sherlock addresses John's knees, his free hand tightening into a fist. His voice is a firm whisper. He's too distracted by the anger he harbours for himself to acknowledge the compliment. "I would not have done it if I'd had any other choice. Please believe me. All possibilities-- if there had only been some other way--it was the only way I could--"

"Sherlock. Stop."

Something in John clinches at the sound of Sherlock's voice and the way that Sherlock's shoulders curl in as if John is about to do or say something that will break him utterly.

John takes a deep breath, reaffirming himself, his convictions. John could never leave him, and would never change a moment, not in a million years, not unless he was asked point blank by Sherlock alone. "I believe you. And I forgive you. You tried what you could think of and it didn't work. Everything you tried to do was to keep me safe. I'm not angry with you. You did what you thought was right."

"The things I've done. The pain I've caused you John, continuously." Sherlock very nearly growls, so angry with himself. His crystalline eyes are nearly transparent in their naked fear. Tears are beginning to well. "How can you want me to stay with you? How do you trust me? After everything I've done? After doing this to you?" His last words are whispers, nodding his head sadly towards John's arms.

John frowns, shaking his head. "No. No love. You wrong. /I/ did this to me Sherlock," he corrects. "I made the decision to go there on my own. All you did was get me out of there. Breaking a couple of bones is nothing compared to the thought of losing you. Do you understand that? You saved my life. Everything you've ever done from the first moment I met you has saved my life. And I am /so/ grateful for that. I want us to stay together. To BE together. Always."

"Really?"

"Really." John's voice cracks a bit.

Sherlock searches his eyes and finds the reassurance he seeks there. He accepts John's words as true as a tear creeps down Sherlock's cheek.

"John?" He says quietly. "Is it like that every time...for you?"

With his face tilted up, the light striking softly on the high crest of his cheekbone, he looks so small and helpless for a man that's larger than life. The rogue tear banks back at his jaw and scrolls down his neck, disappearing into his shirt collar. He's so goddamn beautiful.

"Like what, love?"

"That .../fear/." He says almost hollowly, his eyes wide like he's reliving a nightmare. "That I might never see you again. That you've sacrificed yourself and there's nothing I can do to stop you or to help you. That I may have gotten there too late? Is that what it feels like when I do that to you?"

"Yes." John's voice shakes. Affected more than he thought he would be. Tears burn at his own eyes. "Every time."

"Is there a way for it to not feel like that?"

"By us never doing it to each other again. By working together from here on out. No matter what."

Sherlock nods, closing his eyes and pressing his face into John's outer thigh. And finally, after too many days of turmoil, he relaxes his shoulders. "Agreed. I agree. Never again."

John lays his head back against his chair and tries to swallow down his vulnerability. With nothing more than words Sherlock has once again flayed him wide and found new depths. He to himself is a terrain undiscovered and it's taken someone as brilliant as Sherlock Holmes to traverse him, expose him, and relate back to him in the most intimate of ways.

Suddenly the silence of understanding is not enough to soothe. He wants the man beneath him to be beside him. Pressed close.

"Y'know what I'd like to do together now?" He asks, waiting for Sherlock to make an interrogative noise. "I'd like to go to bed. Will you come lie down with me?"

Sherlock raises his head up and smiles a small smile when he sees John's sincerity. "Yes. Of course I will."

They make a quick stop in the bathroom. Sherlock politely standing outside the curtain as John pisses into the drain of bathtub so that he doesn't have to worry about aiming. And in lieu of having Sherlock actually brush his teeth for him, John decides that a quick rinse with the mouth wash will suffice for now. His tooth is still a bit sore from being messed with but he declines the offer of a co-comedal and claims he doesn't feel he's hurting nearly enough to justify taking them. 

But the opening and the shutting of the medicine cupboard, however, does call the Propolis Elixir to his attention. 

"So is there any particular reason why you felt the need to replace our flu medicine?" He asks nonchalantly as they're moving into Sherlock's bedroom. Sherlock takes care to see to John first -- helping him out of his vest and stripping him of the track pants Mycroft had provided to them while they'd been in hospital until he is down to his white cotton pants -- before peeling himself down to his own pair of silk black boxer briefs that hug all his curves without any hope left for imagination.

John tries not to stare, but he's not very good at it.

"I required something that contained no alcohol in its ingredients." Sherlock says. Folding all of the discarded clothes neatly into a pile.

"Ah. I see."

"Plus," Sherlock adds, rucking back the well-made sheets. "/Bees/, John."

"Oh, right. Bees." John sits back against the pillows Sherlock's mounded up for him and nods like he should know why that last statement makes perfect sense. 

Sherlock makes to settle in at his side, but John interrupts him. "No. C'mere. Give me your head. I haven't apologized yet for what I've done to you."

Eyebrows knitted in confusion, Sherlock tips his head towards John and breaks out into a smile when John lifts his chin to gently kiss the supernova on his forehead. He lets his lips linger there, breathing in his scent.

To think they'd nearly lost each other.

It's a thought that nearly cannot be borne.

Overcome, John's mouth is moving to Sherlock's temple and Sherlock is pushing his face back against it. John kisses his cheek next, his lips against the wet track of his fear, then they're sliding over and across to catch Sherlock's lips which are pouted and searching and suddenly it's a raw push to see which one of them can bury themselves more deeply inside the other's passion.

John loses the race when Sherlock presses his palm against the rigid length of John's cock over his underwear and they both find out he's standing hard as steel. John's mouth dislodges in a surprised gasp as he presses his hips up into the pressure. "Oh my God!Sherlock!"

"Let me." Sherlock slurs, already tucking five lovely fingers into the elastic waistband. "Please let me."

"Yes!" John pants, watching as nimble hands work his underwear down over his thighs. Cool air sweeps across his groin and he gasps at the difference in temperature on his blood-hot prick. Then Sherlock is working his way down on his elbows, lips smearing down John's belly until his shins are hanging off the end of the bed and in one move he's swallowing John down to the absolute root.

John's head snaps back into the cushions. His shoulder whines and Sherlock's mouth works him with the solitary focus of a man who solves crimes for a living and has found something more interesting than a crime scene. Inside his jaw is hot and wet and soft and moving so rapturously that John can't even feel the rest of his body. His cock is the only thing that exists of him. And it is bright and it is pulsing and it is so fucking close to going off that he ---

Sherlock pulls off abruptly and John snaps back into his body like Sherlock's just performed an exorcism. "Wha-?" He pants and Sherlock is braced up on all fours, looking down between his own legs.

"I'm...I..." Sherlock stutters. And he's looking down at his cock which is standing straight out against his belly. Much to his own surprise, to go by the look on his face.

John will not let this moment be wasted. "Do you want to...?"

"Do I want to what?" Sherlock puts a hand delicately to himself and pulls it away as if burned. No drugs. No alcohol. No guilt. Just pure elemental emotion is driving his arousal this time.

"Fuck me." John's brain overtakes his manners. "Fuck me, please."

"I don't know if I...I've never..."

Something glows in John's pelvis to hear Sherlock so innocent. To know that they may be on the verge of discovering something yet again new together. A new colour of feeling they had not known they shared. "Neither have I. Not this way. Do you want to try? We don't have to--but I would very much like--" 

"Yes." Sherlock breathes. Putting a hand to himself and giving his cock one gentle stroke. With only that, his hips stutter. The arm that's holding him up nearly collapses beneath him and the moan escapes him that punches John straight in the groin.

"Lube. Get the lube."

And soon Sherlock is locked up on his knees, hand moving deftly to spread the lube over himself before reaching down to get at John's entrance.

"God I want to touch you. Godfuck. I wish I could touch you." John rambles as he watches Sherlock move. He feels trapped in a straight jacket with his arms all bound up. Which might be a good thing because he thinks he might be losing his mind. "Jesus Christ you're fucking gorgeous. So gorgeous. Ah!" Sherlock's finger slips in and slips deep and John swears he can feel it clear up in his throat.

"More." John grinds out and another finger pushes in beside its mate, followed a little while later by another. And with three fingers spoked in his arse, John's body writhes heedlessly to meet them. He feels plumbed clear up to his heartbeat.

"Ready?" Sherlock asks, somewhat timidly. And John has only to nod and spread his legs to feel all his need siphon down into his lower belly. 

With a steadying breath, Sherlock takes himself in hand and guides his cock in.

The stretch of it stings dully. The pressure of initial resistance before the head pops in makes John's hips curl up and his knees rise into his periphery. "Sher--hmn. Sherlock." Sherlock's hands are curled around his hips and he doesn't stop his pressing until he's all the way inside.

At the last he falls still. Holding there.

Sherlock's mouth hangs open. Eyes half-lidded. The dark smear of bruises on his face compliment the lovely architecture of his skull like war paint. And there's a barely perceptible tremor coursing through him which astounds John Watson to know that he can feel it /inside/ himself.

Even after a little bit longer, Sherlock refuses to move.

"You feel so good, love. This feels SO good." John encourages. It hurts a bit and it's a bit overwhelming but it feels /right/ and he loves it. "C'mon. Move now. You can move."

Sherlock shakes his head, raking his bottom lip in with his teeth and closing his eyes. 

"What's wrong?" John asks.

"I'm..." Sherlock tries, breathless. "If I move it'll...I'll be done."

"Okay. That's okay." John nods encouragingly.

"Is it?"

"Yes. I only wanted to know what this felt like. And now I have. I'm alright if you're done after this. It's fine." God Sherlock feels HUGE inside him. Overwhelming. He doesn't mind being done. If this is the only time he gets to experience this, it has been more than enough.

"John." Sherlock manages to grind out. The iron grip he'd had on John's arse had loosened a bit until John had started to squirm. His fingertips bite back into the muscle.

"Just touch me first, yeah? Get me off. Please?" John begs. Needing something to help spread out the tight focus of his hole being stretched wider than it ever has been. "I'll be quick. I'm close too."

Sherlock nods, swallowing. And unclamps his right hand to bring it to John's cock. 

John's breath bellows from his chest as Sherlock sets up a firm rhythm. Moans and growls pouring from John's mouth with each upstroke and when Sherlock finally adds the tandem movement from his hips, John is lost.

And true to both their expectations, it's over in a moment.

Their simultaneous orgasms grip them utterly. Each of them crying out in ecstasy as the muscle contractions rage. John comes hard at the same time he feels the seeping heat of Sherlock's spunk spread inside his body. It is raw. It is wild. And it is wonderful.

And Sherlock is infinitely careful not to collapse straight down onto John when he pulls out. He rolls onto his side with one hand cupped into a fist and propped up on its elbow. 

"Jesusfuckingchrist!" John pants eloquently, "Jesusfuckingchrist..." He starts taking deep pulls in through his nostrils and letting them out of his mouth. Trying to calm his galloping heart.

"Well that was...quite an experience." Sherlock gulps in sympathy. He's sucking in air just as quickly as John. Tipping his neck to look down and watch his sated, glossy cock pull back slowly into its foreskin.

"Like that then did you?"

"It was interesting. Yes."

"Interesting?" John laughs a bit, figuring that that's the best he's going to get from a man that usually doesn't prefer sex. He himself though, is suffused with absolute pleasure. "I don't know why they don't recommend that in hospital for pain management. I can't feel anything." And it's true. There is not a single thing that hurts on him. Not with oxytocin pumping so vigorously.

But there is a loud slurping in answer and John looks over to find his own come being lapped out of Sherlock's palm. John's mouth drops open to witness it. He must have caught it when John had orgasmed and is now licking it out from between his fingers with a soft pink tongue.

"Oh fuck." John whispers in awe and his sleepy cock gives a needy pulse at the sight of Sherlock's eyes flashing open.

"I've discovered I like the taste of your ejaculate..." Sherlock shrugs as if this is no great deal. Tongue rudely continuing. And there's just enough gargle in his voice to make John realize that he's holding some of the come his mouth. To /savour/.

Either way.

"I want some." John hears his mouth say with a shiver and his arsecheeks slide slickly as he moves to let Sherlock tip over him. He licks at the seam of Sherlock's lips until they open and a warm wet wash of liquid comes rushing at him. He swallows it all, moaning wantonly and not at all embarrassed for it.

As the tangy afterkisses die down and the exhaustion slides in, Sherlock resettles onto John's side. 

This is how it will be forever, John thinks as he skirts sleep. Two people in love against the rest of the world. Doing everything together.

"Sherlock?

"Hm?" His breath is hot against John's neck. His arm slung low across John's belly. The entirety of him wholly enveloping.

"What was that symbiosis thingy you said we had? Back before all this?"

"Facultative symbiosis?" Sherlock says.

"That's it." John remembers now. Eyelids getting heavy. "I'm glad that's working out for us."

"Hm. It's not though." Sherlock admits sleepily. 

John makes an interrogative noise when it doesn't seem like he's going to elaborate.

"I'm afraid I was premature on my observations. What we have is obligate. We cannot survive without each other."

John smiles. "I'll raise a glass to that." John muses, "if I could raise my arms at all."

Sherlock plucks up enough effort to kiss John's shoulder. Sliding his hand carefully into the fingers that poke out from John's cast and winding them together. "And what drink would you raise if you could? Tea?"

John laughs a bit. "Mm. No. Chianti, I think. More fitting." He doesn't expect Sherlock to get The Silence of the Lambs reference and is more than a little surprised when Sherlock lifts his head and pulls back far enough to reveal a concentrated frown.

"Hannibal Lecter was supposed to have been taking MAOIs for his personality disorder during the time he told Clarice Starling that line. And, as you well know by being a doctor, patients taking these medications are put on restrictions concerning high-tyramine foods; specifically liver, beans, and red wine, in the event that such a combination can prove to be fatal. 

"And besides that," Sherlock says, ignoring John's amazed stare by snuffling back into his pillow facing the other way. Still managing to keep their fingers twined. "It's more likely that he would be drinking an Amarone anyway. It's suppose to pair deliciously with fats and oils."

"You're having me on." John says after a beat. Not able to stop himself admiring the tiny wrinkles in the twist of Sherlock's long white neck.

"Mm." Sherlock sighs as he slips off. "There's a Buffalo Bill joke in there somewhere, but I'm too tired."

John laughs again, shaking his head a bit and letting his eyes fall closed. "You're incredible."

"So are you." Sherlock slurs and it's the last coherent thing that slips from his mouth before a litany of soft breaths follow.

John listens to them for a while. Falling into their rhythm before giving a necessary squeeze to Sherlock's fingers, an appreciative smile to the cosmos, and slips off to sleep on caramelized bones with the love of his life pressed in closely.

//  
FIN.  
//

 

//  
//

 

//  
EPILOGUE  
//

The programme they're watching stops abruptly. "And now on BBC One a special news report."

John's head snaps away from their guest and he apologizes while groping for the remote. He knows in his bones what this is about. They'd only been waiting for it.

She's finally dead. 

And it had only taken three months for it to kill her.

"The Queen Mother has died peacefully at the age of one-hundred and one this afternoon," the reporter says. "The announcement from Buckingham Palace is that the end was peaceful and that the Queen was at her bedside. The Prime Minister's tribute: 'She symbolized Britain's decency and courage. She was admired by all people of all ages and backgrounds. Revered within our borders and beyond.'"

John scoffs, then promptly smiles off the somewhat affronted glare their guest gives him. "Long story." He mutters before turning back.

"As well wishers began to gather at the castle gates, more details emerged of the Queen Mother's final hours. Her doctors had been called this morning after her condition had deteriorated. The Queen and other members of her family gathered at her bedside. A local clergyman was called to say prayers. 

"The Queen Mother's health began declining soon after she made her last public appearance. A few weeks later she developed a chest infection and a bad cough which she found hard to throw off. She became increasingly frail and soon was confined to a wheelchair. The funeral arrangements have not yet been announced, but the service is expected to be held at Westminster Abbey after a lying in state at--."

John shuts he telly off and sighs. A sense of finality settling over him and he lets a smile flash onto his lips before melting away. He pushes up from his chair. "If you'll excuse me, I'll be just a minute." He says, getting only wide eyes and a heavy nod as he heads back towards the kitchen with two empty mugs to put in the sink.

"Sherlock?" He knocks on the bedroom door before heading in without hearing a response. "Are you planning on getting up anytime within the next century?" John asks when the door closes.

He's addressing the lump that's currently curled up in enough bedsheets to only leave the wild splash of hair peaking out.

Sherlock doesn't move.

"It's only that there's a client out in our sitting room and you're trying to avoid him."

"Not avoiding." Sherlock mumbles, before turning over and clearly /avoiding/. "I take it she's dead then?"

"Yes. This morning,'' John says, not even bothering to worry about how he could possibly know. "'Natural causes' apparently. So if that doesn't make you mad enough to rouse you out of bed then I don't know what will." He picks at the bed linen a bit and goes for a cheap blow. "I thought you agreed that we would work together." 

As he knew it would, saying this rouses Sherlock enough for him to shift over and create a perfectly-sized hole with his curled body to accommodate John sitting on the bed. John does so and waits until Sherlock squirms close enough to be pressed fully against him. 

One turquoise eyeball peaks out from over the sheet's edge. "We are." Sherlock pouts. "I'm staying here with the witness and you're going to go investigate the crime scene. Thus utilizing our strength in numbers."

John places a hand on Sherlock's head and smiles when the man leans up into it like a cat. It's been almost a month since he's gotten his cast off and John can't seem to stop touching Sherlock at every available opportunity. Good thing Sherlock doesn't seem to mind at all. "Divide and conquer hm?" John hums. He threads his fingers through soft curls before taking a bit of a handful. "You will get dressed though, yeah? Before wandering out to the sitting room? The man /was/ witness to a murder after all - well heard one anyway - which you said ranked at about a six, so that at least earns him some trousers wen you get around to it."

"Yes yes." Sherlock sighs, a dismissive hand flapping beneath the sheets. He closes his eyes, looking far more content with John's lingering hand than any agreement.

"Then I guess I'll call you with the laptop when I get there then. Try it out?" It's Sherlock's turn to hum and John bends down to seek out the bottom half of his face so that he can get a proper kiss from it. The kiss lingers, then deepens, and John has to physically wrench himself away from Sherlock's impossible lips. They are constantly trying to draw him down like quicksand.

He giggles when Sherlock surges up to nip at him. "Stop. We have to stop."

"We don't." Sherlock growls playfully and the rumble in his voice is so deep it drops straight into John's groin and goes molten. 

"We do."

A long white arm snakes out from beneath the covers and takes hold of John's wrist, keeping him there. "One more." And he's being pulled back down against Sherlock's prostrate body, lying flush on top of him. The kiss resumes and keeps.

Sherlock slyly maneuvers his thigh to strategically be a pressure point for John's lightly rutting hips and the crest of the building tension pulls John back from the freefall. 

"If you feel up to it, when I get back home," John growls as he pulls himself away to whisper in Sherlock's ear. His voice husky. "What do you say to letting me grind myself against your leg and see how long it takes me to get off?" He nips at Sherlock's earlobe and the breathy gasp he gets in return makes his pelvis give one last lurch against the mad man beneath him. Sherlock's never gotten it up again in the heat of the moment since the last time. But neither of them have much cared. Their slightly unusual sex life has been suiting them down to the ground anyway.

"I would say that I am quite agreeable." Sherlock says back, smiling.

"Mm. Excellent." John steals one last kiss before pushing himself up and holding there. 

Sherlock looks so lovely beneath him. Laid out like an oil painting on a white canvas. Each brush stroke of him a masterpiece in itself.

John takes his time to admire the strong yoke of his shoulders, the wild crown of his black hair, the kiss of his swollen lips and the kaleidoscope eyes that make John never want to leave this bed ever again in his life. And he feels a bit of pride radiate through him that /he/, of all people, gets to be the sole collector of such beauty.

But, unfortunately, it's also not feasible for them to linger in bed for the rest of their lives as there are still bills to pay and as Sherlock's fond of saying now, they're the only two consulting detectives currently active in London, so they must continue to do the work that nobody else is qualified to do.

"Alright," John makes up his mind. "I have to go before I don't go at all." 

He leans down for one last kiss and stays low when they part. Their nose tips touching gently. 

He makes sure to look into each of Sherlock's eyes. And says what he says every time they are to be apart now. So that it will never go unsaid between them ever again.

"I love you Sherlock Holmes." John says.

And Sherlock makes sure to look into each of John's eyes too.

"And I love you, John Watson."

//

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it! thank you for your support and I hope you'll stick around to try out some of my other stories. THANK YOU!!


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